The Adventure of the Red-Headed Intrigue
by mrs.forsyte
Summary: In 1895, Sherlock Holmes attends a funeral and sees a ghost. Or is it? Sequel to "A study in wedlock".
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

" _Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and care/ sat on his faded cheek"_

 _Paradise Lost_

The rain fell on his hat in heavy, sluggish drops as he exited the cab, feet carefully testing the soaked ground before he entrusted it with the weight of his body. A cane was most welcome on this slippery terrain, the black glove which covered the hand wrapped around the knob most appropriate on this most melancholy of melancholy days. _Just right_ _for the occasion_ , he thought, though whether he referred to the weather or his clothing was a matter unclear even to him.

Simultaneously with the probing of the muddy ground, his quick eyes had discovered the forlorn figure right there at the iron-wrought portal, hands irretrievably lost in the grasp of some sympathetic friend or acquaintance whose talk seemed as persistent as the fall of rain. He was not being listened to. A set of eyes under brows that frowned with chagrin aimed at somebody beyond the sympathetic talker; at the new arrival.

He did not hasten his move and smoked a cigarette in the shelter of a large willow as he waited for the unwanted party to withdraw. Only when his retreat through the towering portal was complete, the cigarette was flicked listlessly into the mud.

"Thank you for coming, my dear chap."

John Watson's hands wrapped as tightly around his as if they had grown used to this manner of locking with other people's, and felt lost in their few seconds of liberty. It was probably the truth. Watson had grasped many hands within the last seventy-two hours.

He moved his head slightly, unwillingly. "It's nothing."

The tense, chagrined eyes, small from lack of sleep, met his gaze. "Well, I am glad you're here. I'm...troubled."

Sherlock Holmes nodded slowly. Both men seemed to move in slow motion, in spite of the rain that dribbled down onto their exposed forms.

"I am very sorry. For you, for Mary. She was too young to die like this. She was - a fine woman, old boy."

The face with the drawn look tensed painfully. "I appreciate your saying so. Particularly since your estrangement might have disposed you toward - "

A swift shake of the head, a fleeting smile. "Pray don't mention it, my friend. It does not matter now."

Watson opened his mouth, as if to protest, when another mourner hailed him from a short distance. Instantly, Holmes merged with the shadow of the high brick wall. He had no taste for his friend's general company; men with boisterous voices who tried to subdue them for the occasion, nervously toying with their hats or gloves. Also, it was better if no introductions took place. After all these years of semi-celebrity, Holmes still valued his incognito.

He ponderously followed the wall toward the portal, passing through it into the god's acre. It was quite true, after all. The estrangement with Mary, since its beginning seven years ago, had permanently closed Watson's doors to him. If it had not been for the doctor's regular visits to Baker Street or the Sussex Downs, those would have been lonely years indeed. Only her premature death, brought about by an undetected cancer, was able to finally restore his friend's availability to him.

But this was neither the time nor the place for thoughts like these. As he approached the open pit, surrounded by by a growing number of people, he made a conscious effort to envision the good times, the times before...the event. Sun seemed to shine warmly on his face in spite of the unrelenting rain, he recalled the smell of flowers, freshly picked, as Mary spread them on the picnic blanket in front of him, her laughter as he teased her for her zeal. Her grateful face uplifted to him, released from the strain of anxiety a false suspicion had brought upon her, a suspicion he had cleared her from. Her girlish excitement as she walked into a ballroom in full evening wear, right next to -

No, no. Better not to think at all. Better not to remember.

He had reached the throng of mourners by the edge of the grave. A coffin was waiting, circled by four sturdy young men in dark clothes. They had taken off their caps and lowered their heads solemnly, immovable figures in the cold drizzle. The priest, on the other end of the pit, seemed much more eager to get started with the ceremony. Maybe it was the cold humidity creeping into his ancient bones, or the mud that kept splashing up against his white vestments. He fidgeted, and gave a small, impatient sigh as the widower appeared in the distance, accompanied by a sprinkling of late arrivals.

Holmes followed the example of the other mourners, and took of his hat as the eulogy commenced, although the top of his head was the last dry spot on his entire person. He was no enthusiast of formal speeches, and barely listened to what the man said. He had not known Mary Watson, whose christian piety and involvement into good works he praised in a self-righteous fashion, as if nothing else mattered, as if there had not been a living woman behind all those saintly virtues. A woman who grew disappointed, but not bitter, over her inability to have children. Who liked to laugh and befriended people easily. Who played the piano. Who danced. Who meddled. Who argued. Who crossed a small stream on large, round stepping stones, a large bouquet of flowers in her arms…

But now she was there, cold and lifeless in a coffin that slowly lowered into the grave, defeated in a battle she could not have won. She had not wanted to see him to the last. She had not allowed him to bid her adieu. And now, she had met the ground, with a shaky husband strewing soil on her from a freshly dug up heap. He managed one, two hands full, before he stepped back to let the others have a turn.

Which they did. A pale, white hand dug into the heap of soft earth, opening in mid air to release the crumbs above the coffin lid. A quick beat of lashes behind a short, black meshed veil. A glimpse of vibrant red beneath the toque.

Holmes felt the colour drain from his face. His body, trained to resist natural impulses, did not gasp; his hand did not fly up to clutch his collar as he saw Kitty Winter stand on the opposite rim of the pit. He saw the fierce flash of recognition in her peculiar watery eyes, saw her raised hand close into a fist. There were just these few feet of thin air between them. Had it not been for those, he could have reached out to touch the woman who had died seven years ago.

Kitty looked younger than she had on the day that she went over the cliff. She was thinner, a few inches taller. Her simple black dress was modern, inexplicably elegant. There were no marks of vitriolic oil on her bare, white neck.

The moment lasted for less than a heartbeat. She stiffened, and drew back. Others pushed to the front and drowned her out. The only thing he could glimpse was the small black toque, disappearing swiftly in the crowd.

oooOOOooo

He felt transported as the wash of people took him away, directing his step in a certain direction without any need to think about it. Memories flooded his mind as they had earlier on, but this time inadvertently. Catherine haunted them.

Of course he had not seen a spectre. He had been a fool even to wince, he who knew better than most men that the world was big enough as it was, without any ghosts in it. The person by the pit had not been Kitty, or, as he had taken to calling her secretly in his thoughts, "The Woman". She was separated from him by the grave in more than this sense. In fact, he knew quite well who this was. It had been mere stupidity not to anticipate such an incident.

But the first moment's shock ran deep. He had to admit it to himself as he realized the altered surroundings, a porticoed venue with large windows and high ceilings, overlooking wistful, autumn-tinted clusters of beech and elm. He reached out, and with muttered thanks grabbed a glass from off a waiter's tray. The wine was sweet and potent, and, though disgusting to him, served his purpose for now.

"Holmes!"

To his dismay, he saw Watson dismiss a group of people who uttered their condolences. With a few swift steps, the doctor had crossed the room and was at his elbow.

"I am so awfully sorry, my dear fellow. I thought you knew….she came over from Paris yesterday."

He smiled irritably. "Of course I knew she'd be here. You are the closest approximation to a father she has in the whole world. And I assume she was fond of her foster mother as well."

"Still." Watson pressed a fist to his moustache, letting it drop again from there as sometimes he did when angry with himself. "I should have said something, back at the entrance. I should have known it would be a shock to see her thus, unprepared. Why, the girl is Kitty's living image!"

A brief spasm passed over his friend's face, just in time for Watson to get a hold of himself.

"My apologies. I'm well aware you do not wish to have her mentioned. But Fanny was only fourteen years old when she came to live with us...she hasn't seen you since. She will not even remember your face, depend upon it."

Holmes smiled tightly. "She recognized me."

Watson's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure? Couldn't she just have…?" He faltered. "Oh dear. Here she comes."

He straightened, mustering a smile at the young woman who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

Her gait was catlike; leisurely, but self-confident. Her steps did not for a second hesitate, the glass in her light grasp did not sway. Grey eyes peered out from behind the black mesh. She did not smile in return.

"Uncle John." She gave him a light peck on the cheek. "I 'ope this wan't too much of an ordeal for ye."

Seven years of private education in an upper middle class household had not taught Fanny to disown her origins in the lower strata of London society. Those words might have been Kitty's words, the inflection was pure Limehouse. It did not seem to make her self-conscious.

"Of course not, Fanny dear." Watson patted her hand, the small, transparent hand that had sprinkled earth over Mary's coffin. "I say, do you remember my old friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

Her head turned slowly, as though she had not been aware of anybody else's presence. Holmes' hand extended towards her. "Hello, Frances", he said calmy.

Grey eyes pierced him, slowly wandered down on his person and pierced his proffered hand, too. With the same, unhurried movement, her head turned back towards her former guardian. When she spoke, it was like honed daggers falling from the sky and boring into granite.

"Indeed, Uncle John. Yes, I do remember the man who sent me aunt into 'er death an' had her chile put away into an asylum. How do you do, Mr. 'olmes?"

She did not face him, but he replied all the same.

"Quite well. Thank you, Frances."

"That is wonderful. I 'ope the best for yer health, so that you may live many years more wiv the knowledge of the damage you did. It will do the most astounding things to yer character."

Still, to the observer, she seemed to be talking to Dr. Watson, rather than his friend.

Holmes cleared his throat. "Doctor, could you give us a moment, please? Obviously, Miss Morris and I have one or two things to discuss in private - "

Her head was flung around full force to face him, her eyes burning. "I am NOT me aunt, Mr. 'olmes! I would not discuss anything with you in private, even if ye was ten years younger. Seriously - " her eyes travelled him up and down again, "'ave you looked at yourself?"

One more glance from contemptuous grey eyes, and she was gone. Watson' arms hung by his sides limply, his mouth opening and closing again as if he could not find the heart to speak. There was no need to say anything, however.

Sherlock Holmes drew out his cigarette case. He took one out,stuck it between his lips and lit it, frowning at the spot where Fanny had just disappeared.

 **Hi readers!**

 **It has been a long time! Time enough to miss 'my' characters and to crave writing about them again….heh. So this is the pilot chapter for my sequel to "A study in wedlock".**

 **As you can tell, seven years have passed and Kitty's niece Fanny is a grown up woman - maybe not a very nice one. A lot of things have happened in between time to change her life completely, and evidently, she has some reproaches to lay at Holmes' door! We can only wait what happens. That is, you can only wait, because I know (some) already!**

 **As always goes: Let me know what you think! I love to hear your views!**

 **Lots of love, Mrs. F**


	2. Chapter 2

In the Midst of Life

"Cruel his eye, but cast/ Signs of remorse and passion to behold"

 _Paradise Lost_

The embers were low, just an occasional red speck between what remained of the coals and would soon disintegrate into grey ashes. However, the temperature in the room was such that neither of the men felt the need to rekindle the fire, much less put additional firewood into the stove. Divested of the heavy black coats that were slowly drying on the fender, the shirt-sleeved mourners raised their glasses to a toast - the last in a long succession.

"To Mary! To her memory", Watson spoke solemnly, and with a wordless gesture, Holmes included himself before downing the brandy that, in combination with the fire, had been intended to save both of them a severe cold.

The doctor flung himself down into an easy chair, an air of exhaustion on his worn features, while his guest remained standing, and, his head sunken to his chest, chin resting against the rim of the glass that was still in his hand, gazed into the dying fire.

"Oh by Jove, I am glad this is over", Watson uttered impulsively, correcting himself immediately. "Not that I wish you to take this as evidence of a lack of respect for my deceased wife, old man, I just mean to say…"

"She wouldn't have minded you saying that." Sherlock Holmes understood better than most people the ordeal of unwanted attentions, being the center of everything for hours on end against your will. "It has been a long day."

Watson allowed his head to loll to the side a little. His neck ached. Maybe he would be sick tomorrow, the sustaining merits of the brandy notwithstanding. From tired eyes, he watched his guest, who, his face slightly illuminated by the glowing embers, slowly placed his glass on the mantelpiece, next to the large-frame photograph of John's and Mary's wedding, which had been draped in black gauze by a conservative set of domestics.

Holmes slowly revolved to take in every detail of the room where he had been _persona_ _non grata_ for so many years. Nothing much had changed since the time when fate had prepared to turn _him_ into a widower - only the room was much more silent than it used to be. The big grandfather clock had been stopped; likewise the bonny golden show-thing of a timepiece on the sideboard and the german cuckoo clock on the wall, prone to chime every quarter of an hour, had been silenced. A semi-circular table in the gazebo, almost hidden from view, overflowed with wreaths and cards from condoling friends and family members.

A brief, malicious surge of triumph disturbed his solemn tranquility: Here he was, back again after a seven-year exile, decreed by the wife that was now in her grave, growing colder by the minute, losing her grasp on the only person that was left in his life. But he quickly shrugged off the impious thoughts, frowning at his reflection in the grandfather clock glass case. Watson cleared his throat.

"I think it went well though, all things considered. The weather might have been better, of course. But we do not get any say in this, do we?"

"I am afraid no. And yet, everybody was there, I suppose. Everybody...of importance." He gesticulated vaguely, indicating all sorts of human relationships the deceased might have had, and, unable to elaborate further, took the seat opposite to his friend's.

"Yes." Watson sighed."Listen, old pal, I'm awfully sorry about Fanny. If I had known she would attack you in this manner...only, to be quite honest, I didn't think about you and her meeting at all…"

"So you keep saying." Holmes' voice turned slightly acrid. "However, repeating an explanation eternally does not add any relevance to it. I did not complain."

"And yet, I must excuse her." the doctor had flushed a little. "As you said, in some sense, she is my daughter, my responsibility. I cannot have her behave like this toward you, much less in a public place, and on this day of all days. A severe letter is the least thing - "

"My dear friend, you are hardly responsible for the way she was reared. An ingrained impudence such as this is well-neigh impossible to erase - and what is more, I cannot deny the truth of her words, uncultured brat though she may be. I deserve exposure to this hostility. Why complain, in the face of facts? We might as well bewail our lack of wings, or that apple trees will not carry oranges."

He extracted a cigarette from his case, for the umpteenth time today. Watson fixed his eyes on his face, brows painfully creased.

"Holmes", he said gently. "Holmes, my dear friend. You are not to blame for Kitty's death."

A bitter little smile. "Your 'daughter' seems to disagree with you on this point. However, I do not require anybody's opinion to know that if I did not cause Catherine's death in so many words, I very much provided the grounds for it." His voice was steady as he said it, but the hand that lit the cigarette appeared to tremble, as far as Watson could judge it in the dim light. He leant forward in his chair.

"This is not true, just not true. It is your conscience that torments you, that makes you think of the times you treated Kitty unfairly. It wants you to believe the fault is yours, but it's not! We cannot even know what happened on this day, the day that she died. We will never know. It might have been a mere unhappy accident. You know what she was like, old chap. She was a wild child, forever longing for Ireland, for the causeways, for the cliffs to climb in. Her foot maybe just slipped that day. You see, it's as simple as that. It had nothing to do with you."

And that, for Watson, was the truth. Holmes' fault, if there was any, did not exceed his own. He, as a medical man, had not realized his wife's need of an instant operation. White clouds of smoke swirled in front of his concerned eyes, providing a veil for the face of his guest, evanescent, but intransparent. "As you said, doctor. We will never know."

Watson reclined. He knew there was no point in trying to convince his friend, who had stubbornly resolved to take all the blame he possibly could, and was deaf to all evidence of the contrary. And there was evidence. Not only had the fisherman who had seen Catherine Holmes fall of the cliff heard a cry - a clear indication that accident, not intention, had been at the bottom of it. Also, he had studied her diary, a thing Holmes had refused to do. The last page had mentioned a desire for a walk and fresh air; hardly a trace of suicidal intent there.

But most important, there was the evidence of Kitty herself: Kitty, the strong, merry woman, always thirsty for life, afraid of nothing but death. Even under the most disheartening conditions, courage had never failed her. Not when she learned her husband had put high stakes on her life twice, not when she was told that the son she had had despite all adversities was an idiot child, unable to live up even to the most undemanding father's expectations. She was as far a cry from a suicide candidate as was possible, too defiant and too obdurate. Not even Sherlock Holmes had been able to break her.

He knew they had been lovers - whatever else might have motivated their union, she had been devoted to him. She had risked everything to satisfy his unholy hunger for progeniture. And he - Watson mused. He had always had his goal in view, always. Whatever there was beside his mad idea to survive in a _homunculus_ of his making, came second in his priorities. And yet! Nobody, before or afterward, had touched his heart as Kitty Winter had. He just knew. Knew it from the intolerable weeks after Kitty's death, when every being that could remind him of her had had to be removed from his Sussex home: Fanny, the baby, even poor old Ginger Jack, her pet companion.

And Watson had been there to pick up the pieces. Of course he had been there. He had given Fanny a new home, respecting Mary's demand that Holmes was never to see the little girl anymore, never to enter her house. But he had also looked after his old friend, in Sussex, in London, wherever his unsteady life drifted to. And Holmes had changed. He had, if possible, become harder and more reserved. Never more had he betrayed emotion, not even when the asylum gave notice of his young son's death, predictable, yet tragic. The dream of Sheridan Holmes, the child prodigy of unlimited possibilities, had been over long before that.

His friend's voice roused him from his bleak thoughts. "What is she doing these days, anyway? I think you mentioned her living on the Continent. Is she married?"

"Who, Fanny?" Unsuccessfully, the doctor tried to appear as though he had not missed a beat. "Oh no. Mary sent her to Paris to improve her French initially, but in the end, she wanted to stay permanently. She found occupation with a fashionable dressmaker's…" Watson slightly ducked, unsure whether to consider this decision decorous or not. He remembered Mary protesting against it, but it had never been any good to discuss decisions already made with Fanny, and moreover, she had been of age. He had to admit her talent with the needle was considerable...at least as far as he could judge that. He had no eye for lady's couture.

Holmes did not betray whether he considered Fanny's choice unseemly or not. At least, he did not seem surprised. He took another draught of his cigarette, asked one or two more polite questions, and then changed the subject. The silent house gradually grew darker. The trees outside the windows painted their long shadows on the carpet. It was the hour that usually, Mary would have come in with a light, admonishing him not to strain his eyesight so. He would have sighed by the fire, and put away the medical volume he would have been reading, calling it a day. Another nightcap, and he and Mary would have retired for the night. But that was over now, and would never come again.

oooOOOooo

Three weeks later, Holmes thought no more about the funeral. Life had assumed a new - or old? - pattern that was to his liking, it had, so to speak, relapsed into the way things had been twenty years ago, the way that was "normal" to his mind: Life before women had intruded into his and Watson's comfortable bachelor's routine. A good life.

He even swirled his cane a little as he walked down Oxford Street, just wondering a bit at the internal changes of the city - people seemed to find it acceptable to bump into his side and hurry on without an apology, young men and women seemed to have no sense of decorum whatsoever - one only had to look at the way they dressed today, and the inevitable "Votes for Women!" everywhere! And the motorcars, of course. He had come up to the City for the weekend, but already he began to think wistfully about the quiet Sussex Downs, where motorized vehicles were as yet quite unheard of.

Still, he was glad he had not given up the old place in Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson preferred the country life of course, but on his usually short visits to the Capital, he could manage very nicely with a page and a scullery maid. The train connection had become very speedy and convenient; that at least was an advantage of the modern days. He could dine tonight with Watson at Simpson's in the Strand, and be easily back home tomorrow before noon - or so he thought.

He was mistaken. Holmes did not anticipate any sort of attack, he paid no attention to the nondescript coach that trawled at some distance behind him as he proceeded on his way. He was not in London on business, but to run errands: An appointment with the dentist, some legal affair he wished to settle for the Sussex property, a measurement for a new suit. Not that this would have left him less wary in earlier years. But nowadays, rogues did not pounce on you in the open street anymore, nor did arch criminals send their henchmen to finish you off by light of day. Like everything, also the fiends had become more sophisticated, they resorted to a level of activity that did not necessitate clubs, sticks or baritsu moves: So much the better, considering his age. In no more than two years, he would hit the fifty mark, and any form of combating crime that could not be handled from his easy chair would be increasingly out of the question.

Willing this horrid vision to quit his mind, Holmes fell back into the cane swirling mood - sunshine and the prospect of dinner with his friend, what could be better? He just wondered what else he could do on this pleasant most ordinary of days….maybe browse the gentleman outfitters' for a pair of new gloves?...or look in on his favoured tobacconist? Too late did he turn toward the show window of the jeweller to double check his tailor's findings - had he really put on weight? He only ever _lost_ it - or was that the beginnings of old age?! Had he done so some seconds earlier, he might have seen the cab stop and the men jump out before they hooked their muscular arms under his sinewy limbs and dragged him into the vehicle. Before he knew what had happened, they were rattling away. Quite an ordinary day, in fact. For earlier years.

Angrily, he glowered at the men from the bottom of the cab. The blazonry on the inner side of the doors told him everything he needed to know about them, but still, he bore them a grudge for the undignified beginnings of their acquaintance. His bones ached, and in an instinctive attempt at self-defence, he had torn a button from his immaculate frock coat.

"What is it now?" He ungraciously cried in a language that was not English. "Not your art again?"

One of the men told him, and Sherlock Holmes worked himself up on his elbows, a smirk of contempt on his face. "Oh for heaven's sake! Can't you look after your belongings like any other nation?"

 **Hi!**

 **Sorry for another mostly sad chapter! I needed to clarify some things about the past, but the future looks brighter and we'll be there quite soon!** **Hang in there!**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	3. Chapter 3

Déjà Vue

" _Free, and to none accountable, preferring/ Hard liberty before the easy yoke"_

 _Paradise Lost_

He had a natural disposition for seasickness, but treating his body as a mere appendix had become such a habit over the years that it hardly mattered now. Thus, he almost failed to be relieved when he exchanged the boat for firm ground again in Dover.

He and his escort were met at the quai by the same escutcheoned carriage which had transported them through London. It, too, had travelled across the Channel in the boat's guts.

There was little talk on the drive through the country. The men had nothing to communicate to him other than what he already knew, and they left it to their superiors to elucidate him further. Their knowledge of his nearly perfect understanding of French inhibited any conversation they might have started among themselves.

Holmes did not mind. He had positioned his elbow in the window, so that his lower face rested against his index, a good attitude for him to think. There was no thought wasted on his purchases which probably continued their lonely existence on a London sidewalk, or on the dinner at Simpson's that was not going to take place. His mind was entirely focused on the problem at hand.

A good many years ago, Sherlock Holmes had rendered the French government a great service. A man in the pay of a certain arch-criminal had stolen a certain painting of universal fame, and he as well as the great Bertillon had been called in to retrieve it. In the end it had been he, Holmes, who had succeeded in identifying the thief and in obtaining the stolen artwork, because he had seen the larger picture, because he had made the connection between this incidence and others, tracing them back to an english professor of mathematics. For this feat, he had been rewarded with a gleaming medal and _la bise_ by the Président of the Republic, and everybody had been happy.

Governments had changed since these days, but faith in Holmes had remained, deeply seated in the memory of the leading men. Other things, however, were not what they used to be at the time. The great Bertillon, for one, was dead. So was the professor of mathematics. He could be safely counted out, if he had not developed some devilish means for resurrection from his watery grave. The fact remained that Holmes was called in under fairly similar circumstances, secretly, to retrieve an object of great value before news of its theft could reach the public.

And this time, the scandal would be a political one. The object in question did not in fact belong to the Third Republic, it had been a loan to the Louvre by another world famous museum: The tower of London jewel house.

His memory was remarkable, but he had to concentrate in order to activate impressions of his last visit to this royal hoard, which lay a good many years in the past. Reclining deeper into the corner of the carriage, he summoned the object in question before his inner eye: A little less than six inches in diametre, it weighed 42,3 ounces, and was the shape of a hollow ball, its material pure gold. There was a band running around its midst and a half arch on top, on which had been mounted the symbol of the Christ. The decoration consisted of 375 pearls and 402 precious stones in total.

The King's orb was a gracious contribution of her Majesty Queen Victoria to a temporary exhibition of royal insignia housed by the Louvre. After the savage attack of a raving maniac who had smashed in the showcase and superficially damaged the gem, the director and the government had agreed to mollify the royal wrath of the giver by entrusting an art restorer of high repute with the orb before returning it to the exhibition. As it turned out, both the restorer and the orb had since then disappeared under mysterious circumstances.

So much for erstwhile information. He would learn more in due time. As they reached the outskirts of the metropolis, Holmes allowed himself some private musings - neglecting his short sojourn connected with the Mona Lisa theft, he hadn't visited in ages - and conjured images of the Paris of fourty years ago. His perspective had been a different one, his eyes level with hands and bags and purses, and he had developed a knack of knowing who was about to pick-pocket, and who was about to be pick-pocketed. Grandmère, walking by his side with her enormous bustle and eternal umbrella, closely holding his small fist in hers, would be surprised and amused by his clever way of foretelling events that concerned their fellow walkers, and of laying open his reasoning to her. The world had been unambiguous and uncomplicated back then, it seemed to him.

But Paris, like London, was likely to have undergone changes. Life had accelerated everywhere, had become more complex in ways that could not have been predicted these many, many years ago. He would have to adapt his methods, or he was doomed to lose his hold of affairs and to fail, eventually. Holmes frowned, biding his time and pondering the various courses of action open to him.

oooOOOooo

I don't really like the leg o' mutton sleeve, but that's my problem, I fancy. If I had not exhibited a certain dexterity in achieving the effect, I would have been spared constant employment in this task, but such is my job, and that's just tough. Madame appreciates me for it. I afford her time to look after the finery, to trim decorations to perfection. There she is, bending over the tailor's mannequin, her dark fringe hiding her eyes from view, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth as per usual.

A whiff of the tobacco reaches my nose, and it crinkles slightly. Personally, I don't smoke, unless I feel somebody is not taking me seriously - mostly the tradespeople who think a girl like me can easily be taken to the cleaner's. In such a case, the casual request for matches can have a miraculous effect.

A woman always has to fight for recognition. Being sweet and handsome is all very well, but it's just not enough in our days. You have to know how to be hard, as well. Madame relies on me. She knows she can trust me to conduct negotiations about prices and delivery schedules. Supplies from Cambrai, Vichy, Brussels, Paisley, Madras, Benares and Hongkong reach our studio every week. It is important to keep accounts of expenditure and of revenue, if you want to run a profitable business.

But even that is not enough. You can be as apt as you like with your needle, you can be as smart a business person as ever there was - all that counts as nothing in our trade if you aren't in step with the times. In order to make money, you need to know what people want, not only right now, but what they may want tomorrow, you have to try and anticipate it. I keep my eyes and ears open. Fashionable magazines build heaps on my bedside table. I attend the social functions and pleasure events of good society, I talk to the people there. I have the right background to do this.

The other girls dislike me for it. They resent having somebody on the team who is brighter and quicker than they are. In their midst, I stand out like the only black sheep in a flock of white ones, and they feel it. In consequence, I am shunned at work. I don't mind, as I work better on my own, and madame doesn't gives me any of the coarse tasks anymore. She is the only one who addresses me now and then - nothing personal, only talking shop.

The girls fall silent when they see me approaching. Perhaps they have been pondering new ways of punishing me for having a deft hand and a head on my shoulders. Or perhaps they have been making unflattering assumptions about my private life. I don't have a single friend or confidante among them. They avoid me in our luncheon breaks. Never have they asked me out to accompany them in their pitiable pastimes, which they usually enjoy together, as a clique. Like I care.

The sleeves consist of ruffles, stitched together they make a puffy, padded impression of the upper arm. The look is completely ridiculous, but in Paris it is the _dernier cri_. It needs concentration, which is why I don't realize at first that madame is standing behind me until she touches my shoulder.

"Il y a un visiteur pour vous, Mademoiselle Morris. C'est encore le commissaire de la Sûrété."

Her dark eyebrows are raised in disapproval. I dispense with pointing out that a call from the police can hardly be counted as a particular pleasure that I am not entitled to enjoy during work hours.

"Oui, Madame."

She takes on my job, and I briskly step into her little office, resolved to keep this as short as possible. A familiar figure is waiting for me in the back of it, uncomfortably looking at the _dessins_ of fashionable female undergarments displayed on Madame's sketch board. It is André Delage, superintendent of the Paris official forces. We mutually incline our heads as casual acquaintances will in a hurried situation.

"How do you do, Mademoiselle Morris?"

"Commissaire." I give him a look that speaks my mind more clearly than my words do. "What can I do for you? I must ask you to hurry this conversation, since we are very busy right now."

I emphasize this bit with a look over my shoulders, into the room where my employer is doing my work. Delage clears his throat.

"Very sorry to incommodate you, Mademoiselle, but I am afraid we can't be very quick about his. In fact, I must ask you to accompany me to headquarters. You are required to make a statement…"

" _Comment_?" I fancy myself mistaken. "Commissaire, that is impossible. I gave you that statement twice already, and it was recorded by the minute writer. There is nothing I could add to it - "

He half-raises an apologetic shoulder. "I am most unhappy to interrupt you yet again, Mademoiselle, but this request is coming from superior places. Apparently, there has been a change along the lines of investigation. I must ask you to come immediately, and to repeat your statement to the new investigator."

I fling my head to the side, pouting, taking a second to think.

"If you wish, I will clarify the necessity to your employer…" Delage tentatively suggests, but I shake my head with decision.

"No, no, commissaire, leave that to me. If it has to be, we should get over with it as quickly as we can. Just let me grab my hat and pâletot, and we can be off."

Delage's face relaxes gratefully. "Of course, Mademoiselle. _Dépêchez-vous, s'il vous plaît."_

oooOOOooo

They dropped him at the Hôtel Le Meurice where he had been booked for two reasons: First, because on the Rue Rivoli in the 1st Arrondissement there was no way he could be more central, and second, because it was run by Englishmen, and apparently deemed the most suitable place in town for him - for him, who had spent nights in all possible and impossible places, from the odd Yorkshire byre to the sewers of Lisbon. But who could complain about an establishment where, when he had been in Paris as a young boy, Queen Victoria had resided on a state visit. On which occasion she had probably left her regalia safe at home.

He quickly unpacked - which for him meant to clutter his possessions wildly across the room - rang for the page to order the Paris newspapers of the past week, and was updated by the time the escutcheoned carriage stopped at the imposing white building bordering on the river Seine. He was ushered up the stairs, through a long fleet of marble halls, and finally shown into a lofty, rather comfortable parlour, where a number of venerable elderly men greeted him enthusiastically.

"Ah! Monsieur Holmes! We are saved."

The Third Republic veterans thronged around him, the people he had worked with before. He fell victim to the greetings due to an honoured man, cordial embracements and the dreaded _bise_. There were also some fresh faces, the head of the Sûrété for example, and the Louvre director was also a new man. They were possessed of a comparative reserve, and he silently blessed them for it.

"You will understand, Mr. Holmes",the president of the ministerial council, Alexandre Ribot, addressed him as soon as the niceties were over and the gentlemen had been seated, " that we were most eager to restore to Her Royal Majesty her possessiooon in such a state that she would 'ave no reasooon to regret her benevolence toward our great museum. This is why we sought to employ the most dexterous pair of 'ands available in the whole of Paris…."

"A little bit too dexterous it would seem, Your Excellency", Holmes returned quietly, lighting a cigarette without asking permission. " The treasure, I am informed, is gone."

The new director of the Louvre, a man by name of Étienne Sorel, politely coughed.

"Monsieur Holmes, I have known and co-operated with Madame Zhao for ten years. She possesses, if you will take my take my word for it, a character beyond suspicion. Her devotion to things of artistic value and to the process of repairing them, shows, in my opinion - "

Holmes raised his hands in a placating manner, and the director fell silent. He had a happy talent for such gestures, achieving a satisfactory effect with little effort.

"Monsieur Sorel. There is hardly any use in putting the cart before the horse. I would like to be presented with the events in the order in which they occurred. From the newspapers, I could derive that the vandalism at the Louvre two weeks ago was committed by a person of the anarchist conviction. Is this in accordance with the facts, gentlemen?"

The gentlemen exchanged slightly sheepish glances. Finally, president Ribot, the most eminent personage of the party, took it upon himself to reply.

"It is not in fact known who this vandalising subject was or what his aim in causing a riot in the exhibition might have been. Certainly he had no intention of stealing the King's orb, maniac though he probably was. After smashing its showcase and pushing it from its pedestal, he melted into the crowd and was quite untraceable."

Holmes nodded slowly. "But you chose to inform the papers that the assault was planned and carried out by one or several extreme anti-royalists. You went so far as to say that the perpetrator had been captured."

"Political considerations were a factor in making this decision", the president returned, displaying an expert's patience for the layman. "Our country, Mr. Holmes, has been involved in scandals of various sorts during the last decade. If at all possible, we would like to discontinue this series."

"Indeed." He smiled a little to himself. " Of course I am not as involved with political affairs as you are, president, but I seem to remember a number of them. The Général Boulangers coup some years back...the Panama scandal...and now you have the Dreyfus affair...rather nasty, that."

"Quite so". The president's lips were firmly set. "You see that in order to preserve public peace, it is sometimes better that not too many details should transpire. People will feel unnecessarily insecure if they are told this fellow is still at large. Unnecessarily, because we can't even know whether he will strike again at all."

"Being ignorant of his motives", Holmes helped him.

"Precisely", Ribot snapped. "But this man is not our concern now. What the French government wants you to do, Mr. Holmes, is to retrieve the King's orb, so we can avoid exposure before all the world!"

"Yes, I can see your point." He fell silent for a moment, furrowing his brow. "Pray, what damage exactly was done to the treasure? Would it not have been better, for matters of diplomacy, to commission an english restorer?"

"But Madame Zhao is a recognized authority on the subject of precious minerals!" Sorel again sailed in. "Quite a number of the stones and pearls had come off the orb, and the gold band around its equator was dented. It was the least we could do to call in the most skilled expert to be had. This is not a question of disrespect towards England, quite on the contrary."

"And not a french craftswoman, I perceive", Holmes mused. "Chinese, I presume?"

"Cantonese, to be quite correct. A difficult person to deal with, but a great artist, and most certainly no thief."

"So what is your theory, Monsieur Sorel? As to the disappearance of both woman and treasure, I mean."

The director hesitated. "I...I know my colleagues here think...but her flat was found in such a state as to insinuate abduction…"

"...and which could easily have been achieved for the very purpose!" Monsieur Simon, head of the Sûrété, interrupted. "I have seen a good many of such cases, Mr. Holmes, and I find them to show a pattern that is fairly universal. For example, if you will permit, many people seem to have an idea that criminals breaking into a house will tear out all the drawers and turn them upside down. Well, if it is a random search for valuables, this may be so, but in a case of theft with abduction, it would be more productive for them to make their victim turn over the precious item, and then to abscond with both. Also, the orb is more likely to have been in Mme. Zhao's workshop, rather than among her personal things."

"Madame lived alone, I presume?"

"Oh, yes."

"Are there any relatives that could be questioned?"

"Not in Paris. Her family is living in Asia, she came to Europe a solitary immigrant."

"What about friends?"

Simon shrugged. "She saw a good deal of her dressmaker. Took a fancy to her, we are told. Otherwise, she seems to have been a rather lonely elderly lady. No friends to speak of, only business acquaintances and such."

Holmes nodded. "I would like to see her, if possible. The dressmaker, that is."

"I have already sent Superintendent Delage, who has so far conducted the investigation, to get her. As it happens, she was also the last person to have spoken to Madame Zhao before her disappearance."

"Good. I would like to have access to all data that have been compiled so far. How long has the lady been missing?"

"Since Tuesday last."

"That makes it four days. The trail is cold already."

He rose impatiently, paying no heed to protocol or the eminent men in his company. "Monsieur Simon, I wish to see the relevant documents. Everything that can be learned about Madame via the official channels. Quickly, if you don't mind."

"Certainly, Mr. Holmes…" Simon hurried to comply with the detective's orders. A little befuddled, the great men watched their retreating forms, talking and gesticulating.

oooOOOooo

In Simon's office, Holmes took the liberty to take a seat behind the desk, swiftly leafing through all the papers its owner handed him. Within short time, he knew that Madame Zhao had immigrated in 1869, that she had become a citizen of France in 1884, and that she had been receiving commissions by the Louvre since about that time. Her address was the Rue de Ronsard 176, Appartement 6, Montmartre. There was also a birth certificate from 1832, issued by a registry in Shantou in the Chinese province of Canton.

The Sûrété had also got hold of the portfolio she had once applied with to the Academy of Arts. There were many drawings and etchings that testified to a calm, deliberate hand, all strokes even and controlled, every speck of colour a calculated effect upon the canvas; even at this early stage of her career. An artist, undoubtedly.

He found himself more interested in her work than he thought he would, and was a bit startled when Simon addressed him.

"Monsieur Holmes? Superintendent Delage just returned to the house. The dressmaker is with him, ready to make a statement to you."

"The…?" He raised his eyes from a delicate engraving of ginko leaves on a copper plate. "Of course, yes. Why don't you call her in?"

Simon opened the door to the antechamber and gave a curt sign to somebody. Then he came back to be seated next to Holmes, crossing his legs and opening a file with the record from earlier statements.

The door opened and Holmes' heart rate suddenly accelerated: Kitty Winter entered the room, risen from the dead for the second time within a few weeks.

 **Hi guys!**

 **You seem concerned this is another bleak story - its not! There will be a happy end, this time. However, I said nothing about easy! We have some way to go yet….**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	4. Chapter 4

De Profundis

" _Horror and doubt distract/ His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir/ The hell within him."_

 _Paradise Lost_

Nothing was said during the first seconds of her presence in the room. Simon was for the moment lost in his record, not fully aware of the addition to their party. The noise of the pages he flipped through to find the entry was the only thing to be heard.

Holmes concentrated on making his heart declench. It had probably been just the initial shock of the unexpected encounter - but by God! Kitty was so beautiful he found it hard to bear. Her tender, petite limbs should have been alike to a child's - if it weren't for the regal attitude with which they wore the slightly extravagant dress that rippled down the body in casual folds and was held together at her small waist with a belt. Although it was during the day, she wore long gloves and a black velvet neckband, a round black hat askew on the masses of golden-red hair which had been carelessly piled up on her head, Gibson-Girl style. The stare from her light grey eyes was unwavering and even provocative, a sullen red mouth contrasted appealingly with her marble white skin. To have her here, so close, and yet not here…

He knew where the borderline to mania began, and he hastened to clear his thinking. Of course this was not his dead wife. The swan-like neck, so much like Kitty's, but lacking the traces of violence, was there to prove it. It was the other woman, the woman he had not, as yet, ceased to think of as a little girl that put a trusting hand in his and pestered him with questions about a camel's natural habitat. This was little Fanny, or, as he should probably call her now, -

"Mademoiselle Morris."

Fanny had closed the door with a rather marked thud, and Monsieur Simon finally looked up from his folder, taking the pen out from between his teeth where it had been sitting.

"Will you have a seat, please?"

"I don't 'ave much of a choice, do I?" Fanny Morris returned, moving smoothly towards the remaining empty chair and sinking into it. "That is, unless I wish to kick me 'eels. Far as I remember, Monsieur, our last session took jus' a li'le bit over an hour. Which was better than the session before that - one and an 'alf."

Simon raised an eyebrow. "I am sorry we disturbed you at you workplace, Miss Morris - "

" - repeatedly now. I don't know exac'ly what you think 'ow a business works, M. Simon, but I can assure you from me experience that 'aving the police in and outta the place does not add much credit to it in th' eye of the customer."

Fanny spoke with determination and decision in spite of her young age and the defacing accent that had always made the hair rise on his nape when he had heard it from Kitty. Her whole demeanour - cold, demanding, rationalist - was that of a prudent tradesperson. It sparked another memory of his: Fanny, standing barefoot on top of an empty barrel, practising her market cry - _Sunflower, cornflower, cauliflower! Come, buy!_ \- and she and Kitty had joked about the great career that was probably ahead of her. What innocent days those had been!

Monsieur Simon cleared his throat. "Mademoiselle Morris, I think it is in order to remind you that you are in no situation to negotiate the number of times we may summon you into this office. You are even less so than most people that come here. Remember, pray, that your own part in this extraordinary chain of events is far from unambiguous. You would do yourself a favour to act accordingly."

Her mouth was a positive defiant pout now. " Ah, indeed! Remind me! I 'ad forgotten I 'ad played a part in the disappearance of me friend Madame Zhao and the Queen's funny golden toy! If only I could remember what it was!"

Clearly, this was leading nowhere. Holmes raised his chin. "Frances, would you be so good as to explain the nature of your acquaintance with Madame Zhao in more detail? How did you first meet?"

At the sound of her first name, M. Simon pricked up his ears. "Forgive me, M. Holmes. You know the young lady?"

A dark and a light pair of grey eyes briefly crossed glances with one another. It was Holmes who decided to supply the requested information.

"We are...relatives of a sort, you might say, M. Simon."

"Distant relatives", Fanny emphasized, her stare stony.

"Oh?" Simon was not happy with the turn of events. "How distant, may I ask?"

"No blood relatives at all. She is my deceased wife's niece", Holmes returned, slightly unnerved. "However, there is no reason why this should make any difference to the way I am going to conduct the investigation."

"Of course not." The neutral tones left it to the listener whether or not M. Simon was convinced by the averment. He had obviously decided to leave it at that, for now.

"If you will", Holmes returned to Fanny, prompting her to respond to his initial question.

She gave him a long look that clearly assessed him. Finally, she deigned to reply. "Madame Zhao, Mr. 'olmes, was - is - a customer of my employer, Madame Martinez. Our fashion boutique is located on the Boulevard Haussmann. Since Madame Zhao is a resident o' Montmartre, the distance to the shop would constitute a rather insurmountable challenge for a woman 'er age."

"She is 63", M. Simon provided behind a raised hand. Holmes nodded impatiently.

"Aye. An' she 'as a bad back. In such cases, however, we provide a home-service...which is a li'le more expensive, o' course, but there's many people that fink it's worth it. Now, I was the employee Madame Martinez sent when Madame Zhao wished ter give us a first commission - I took her orders, her measures, the sketches she had made herself. An' when the dress was ready - a strange, asian sort of costume! - I called on 'er again fer the fittings."

"And this is how you became friends", Holmes presumed, always a little unsure about the mechanisms of this process.

"Not at once. She made a few more orders at our shop, and every time, I volunteered ter go, and I ended up seeing 'er in my spare time, is a nice old lady, really nice, and no filthy thief!" Fanny suddenly exclaimed, hotly.

He let that pass without comment. "I understand you were the last person who saw Madame Zhao before her disappearance. That was at her flat, I take it?"

"No. She 'ad asked me out to a café in Montmartre where we was wont to go."

"I see. And to you, whom you knew her relatively well, did she seem her usual self? Or was she nervous - agitated? Did she say anything?"

"Nofink." Her burst of temper had been fleeting, and Fanny had returned to her former state of cold sullenness. "She was….what she was like usually. I 'ave nofink more to say."

He sighed. "Frances. Please, this is important. It would help if you could remember anything. It would help to find your friend, who may find herself in serious danger. We might be able to trace her, to rescue her if necessary, but we need something to go on."

Frances sneered. It was ugly and shocking in so young a person, and the situation warranted no approximation to a smile, not even such a distorted one. "I say, Mr. 'olmes! So you can rescue women, can't you? And 'ere I thought you were good only in destroying 'em."

M. Simon seemed bewildered at that, but Holmes chose to ignore the affront. "What about her Majesty's orb then? It must be found. Surely, living abroad has done nothing detrimental to your patriotism? You are english in your sympathies, aren't you?"

"As english as the cliffs of Dover, Mr. 'olmes."

Her hatred was blatant. It seemed to make the air colder, the walls of the room closer. He found it hard to breathe. Every time he winked, he seemed to catch glimpses of a scene his dreams had made him familiar with: Kitty, walking up the coastal path, tears streaming down her face. Tears for the less than perfect baby she had given him, for his rejection, his incapability of accepting this caprice of nature. She would turn around one last time, to see the far away house, sheltered from the winds in its depression, she would raise her hand in a hesitant adieu - and then she would walk straight over the cliff, into thin air….

He usually woke at this point, shouting and clutching at things: Anything, from the book he had fallen asleep over to the hair on his own head. He tried to hold, to save, but it was too late; he was awake. And now, he had not even been sleeping, although he had been looking into Kitty's eyes constantly, reproaching him with his sins beyond the grave. Yes, yes! He was to blame! He did not need this nightmarish doppelgänger to remind him of that.

He got up in a swift movement, towering over Fanny who remained seated, kept where she was by the mere weight of her hard heart. "Miss Morris, you will restrict yourself to answering my questions unless you wish to suffer the consequences. I am in no mood to subject myself to your extremely inappropriate frolic about our mutual loss. It is quite sufficient that you disgraced your aunt Mary's funeral with remarks of this sort. Please understand that my patience is at an end."

Effortlessly, she maintained her sneer. "M. Simon, is it at all possible that I be questioned by somebody who is not prejudiced against me? Superintendent Dulage, perhaps?"

That was too much. She had definitely crossed the line.

His alar wings quivered, which never boded well for the one calling forth his distaste. Taking one step away from her, Holmes with a jab of his chin indicated the door. "That is enough, Miss Morris - for today. Now get out."

She smiled widely, though her eyes were surprised at the command in his voice. With a cat-like leap, she got up from her chair, and moved past him in a manner he could only describe as insolent. At the door, she revolved with her strange, broad smile, a pose which made him feel her hatred all the more.

Then she was gone, so suddenly he wondered whether she had ever really been there. Meeting the searching gaze of M. Simon, however, he decided that she probably had.

oooOOOooo

I left the Sécurité with a measured step, and maintained it for two blocks before I broke into a run. It felt good to move so fast, to leave it all behind me.

It was a comfort to think I could run away.

My strength lasted for maybe twenty minutes. When the Île de la Cité came into view, my pace deteriorated into a slow jog. I felt tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, and wiped them away angrily.

How dare he insinuate I did not feel Aunt Cathy's loss. I had loved her dearly, and he had taken her from me, forever. And how dare he suggest I were indifferent to what had happened to Madame Zhao - my remaining, my only friend in this place. How dare he. How dare he.

Nôtre Dame began throwing long shadows across the water. I collapsed onto a bench by the Seine esplanade, burying my head in the crook of my arm. Shaken by bitter, angry sobs, I remembered Aunt Cathy, my lovely aunt, my refuge from the hardships and dangers of Limehouse. She had provided a shelter for my baby brother Nicholas and me, whenever the threatening presence of our drunken, insane father loomed, whenever our mother had been scorchingly unfair toward me in her blind, ignorant jealousy. She had resented her sister, who was so much better than her in every way, and resented me for being fond of her, for resembling her.

And when things had started to be really bad between mother and me - when we had moved to Ireland - she had come. Never will I forget the happiness of this winter, only excelled by the time I had spent in her Sussex home. I had thought it would go on like this forever. I had wished for it.

But then the baby had come - adorable, moon-faced, but deficient in the eyes of the world. Aunt Cathy would not have minded. She would have cared for it, would have cherished it for what it was: A lovable, innocent soul. But not everybody was like her. Mr. Holmes was not like her. He had punished her for it. His criminal neglect had killed her, and the baby, too.

I yanked a handkerchief out of my pocket, drying my eyes.

Holmes would have to pay for the damage he had done. Uncle John said he was lonely, unhappy - well, serve him right. I hoped he would suffer agonies until the day hell freezes over. And I hoped I would never again be made to face him, to speak to him as though he were not my enemy. That he was, and the enmity maybe was the only thing I was left with - all friendships lost.

Indeed, perhaps it was better for me to have no friends at all. On whosoever my affection was bestowed seemed to suffer a horrible fate. Madame Zhao's disappearance only attested to the rule. Where was she, and what had become of her? Had she gone away on her own accord, and if so, why? She had not stolen the silly thing. Surely she would have let me know if she had intended to leave for any length of time. On the other hand, could there have been an abduction? Had she been hidden away somewhere; imprisoned? Dead?

Maybe I would never know. The police wasn't any good. I sensed all too well their suspicion of me, masked by polite requests and careful expressions. It would not come as a surprise entirely if I would find myself in jail in the end. The prospect had not even the power to frighten me.

The belfry across the water struck the full hour. I knew I could not remain eternally on this bench. Soon, the patrol would focus their attention on me, and I had no use for that. In addition, it was getting colder.

Shoving my handkerchief back into my pocket, I rose and started back for home, gloomy thoughts stirring my mind.

 **Hi Folks!**

 **Oups - another sad chapter. I hope to get started on the case soon, however, so we can have more action in the story! Hope I made no blunders in the story continuity from "A Study in Wedlock" to "The Adventure of the Red-Headed Intrigue". Always on the lookout, but you're never quite safe.**

 **Taken away by my heroine, I wanted to have my hair dyed red. It kinda didn't work out, hair's still the old colour. But my hairdresser thinks I look awesome! :-P**

 **Best, Mrs. F**


	5. Chapter 5

Hangover

" _Lethe the river of oblivion rolls/ Her wat'ry labyrinth, whereof who drinks/ Forthwith his former state and being forgets"_

 _Paradise Lost_

He woke up with a groan, and a headache. Grabbing the thick, stiff hotel pillow, he kneaded it into the right shape to cover his head and ears with. All the world seemed to be under construction - the subdued sounds from the corridor were like a dull hammering to his over-stimulated senses, and the traffic down in the street sounded like the stampede of concrete compressors. He pressed the pillow closer to his ears and wondered if this was how a battery actually felt when pouring electricity into a non-conductor.

Not that there was anything unusual in the acoustics of a morning on the busy Rue de Rivoli. It was he who had done wrong...who had indulged in morphine and absinth in an establishment of his acquaintance in the Latin quarter last night. Mere foolishness had driven him there, and a desire to forget.

Forget. He carefully turned on his back, narrowing his eyes at the lavishly gilded ceiling above. At least, he had accomplished to forget the better part of last night's details - there were some sad cloudy shreds of recollection after he had got started on his debauch, and that was all. However, he remembered very well his journey to the ill-famed den - mostly the alarming number of _apaches_ trying to rob him and of _gigolettes_ endeavouring to get at his money in a different way. He wondered how he could have managed to return to the hotel safely in his state.

Yes, Paris was a place changed since his childhood days. What dismayed him most was the youth of said _gigolettes_ \- one who had offered her services to him could not have been much older than twelve years. The recollection made him cringe internally. Of course, London was not a model of propriety, either...and there was a certain address in Noel Street a gentleman could frequent with all guarantees of discretion. But the women there, though pliable enough and compliant with his will, were mature professionals and no frightened children. The french metropolis had been on the downgrade these past years, and its inhabitants were for the most part so poor that it was hard to conceive.

But it was not poverty that had extended the thief's hand toward the King's Orb. That much was clear to him. There was a political dimension to taking something so heavily charged with symbolism as this royal trinket. Whosoever had removed it wished to harm either the British monarchy or the French republic - or both? And what role did this Chinese restorer play whose disappearance so strangely coincided with the theft? May the devil take him, if he knew!

A thump on his door, perceived as three times louder than its actual volume, made him spin around and fall out of the king-sized bed. His lips set grimly as he perceived the comic side of this, and one hand pulled the nightshirt over his knees while the other stretched for the store of cigarettes on the nightstand. The first draught of the day helped clear his head. Meanwhile, the rapping on the door continued, and he realized he would have to answer it. He got up with a grunt and carelessly slipped on a dressing gown embroidered with the hotel emblem.

"Yes?!"

To his amusement, the page shrank from this gruff reception, but recovered his impeccable manners in time to save face.

"Very sorry to disturb you, Monsieur, but a gentleman is waiting for you downstairs in the breakfast room. He dispatched me to tell you - "

Holmes, one hand on the door he had opened a mere six inches, was on the verge of throwing it shut with a groan, when the young man, divining his intention, swiftly mentioned a name.

oooOOOooo

It was dark when she woke up, as dark as it had been when she went to sleep. Her small hand trailed over the rough brick wall, over the straw on her pallet. Good. She was In the same place, and in the same position. That was something to start with.

Slowly, carefully, Ling Zhao worked herself into a sitting position and lowered her feet to the floor beneath the pallet. She got up, by degrees, and extended her arm, measuring the darkness with long, deliberate strides. The room was the same as yesterday - five strides in length, four strides in width - yes indeed she was still in the same place. She stopped and tried to estimate how long she had slept. She wondered whether it had been five days as she thought, or whether she had lost track of time already.

The most important thing was to keep her thoughts in order. It was vital that her hands, leathery with age, but still very sensible to touch, should meet rough plaster after five strides in length, and four in width. It was pivotal that she should count days and nights, in spite of the eternal darkness in this place. It was all important that she did not lose her mind.

The would not wait much longer before they began to hurt her, she knew that. Whoever they were, they were not merciful. They had put her into this rat's hole to wear down her spirits, to make her tell. And if that did not bring success, they would try other methods.

The tip of her foot hit a hard object and she cowered down….slowly stretching out her hand. It trembled, full of misgivings about what it might be tricked into touching, but it was just the metal dog's bowl that they used to serve her food in. So far, it had been ordinary dry bread, but she had to make an effort to suppress thoughts of what might come in the future.

Without further inquiry, Madame Zhao straightened herself again. With the help of her tactile senses, she found the way back to her straw-covered pallet and sat down. There was no point in eating so long as her bowels did not complain violently. It was time to think. Keeping a clear head was crucial.

She was helpless in her current position. It was useless to pretend otherwise. Maybe she could last a few days longer, maybe weeks, if they did not practice more immediate torture on her than this confinement in darkness. She could resolve not to speak, but in the end, they would find means to make her.

The only remaining spark of hope was the girl. She wondered whether she had been right to trust her. Suppose she succeeded, suppose she turned out worthy of her trust...then she, Madame Zhao, would be worse than useless to her captors, and they would finish her off.

It seemed very improbable that somebody would come to her help. The girl was good, and smart, too...but how could she find her, how could she save her from the hand of such a subtle enemy? It had been she, she of all persons, who had made her promise she would not go to the police, whatever happened. Do _not_ go to the police, girl. Tell them nothing.

It looked like she would terminate her days in this wet, subterranean room, far away from anywhere she might call home.

oooOOOooo

He exited the elevator and traversed the marble floor of the vestibule with a quick step. However, in passing he caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the lengthy, gilt-framed mirrors between the greco-roman columns that divided the wall and inwardly recoiled.

There were large, flabby pouches beneath his eyes, displaying all thinkable shades of red and blue, that bespoke last night's transgressions. Deep lines ran through his skin vertically between his eyes and to both sides of his mouth. At which point during all these years had he become an old man? For a second, he seemed to hear Fanny's mocking voice again: _"Seriously - 'ave you looked at yourself?";_ but on entering the breakfast-room pushed the recollection forcefully aside. This meeting excelled personal vanities in importance.

Still, the white-and-gold elegance of the place weighed rather heavily on his preoccupied mind. The sumptuous old-gold décor on the walls, the oblong pastoral scenes, the sombre ceiling fresco, the tremendous chandeliers - everything! Indicated the habitat of an eminent and overaged class. No fresh young face was to be seen - even the staff looked staid, and venerable.

He took solace from the green Tuileries that could be spied from the roadside windows, and to his delight discovered his rendez-vous had decided on a table by the windows where he might enjoy just this vista. He was discreetly seated with his face to the road view, and only somebody exceedingly attentive to his environment would have been able to recognise the President of the Third Republic in the back of this nondescript white head. Even so, Holmes waited for a favourable moment when some small excitement over a yapping pet dog at the far end of the room arrested the general attention before he approached the table.

"May I?"

Félix Faure gently inclined his small head. He looked quite distinct from the pictures in the Parisian newspapers; without all of these medals tacked to his breast. However, a great moustache of the walrus stamp made up for this lack of outward trappings of representation. For an irrational half second, Holmes thought that Watson would be green-eyed. He slipped onto a chair, and waited for the other man to open the conversation.

"Mr. Holmes." His visitor stirred some sugar into his coffee. "I have 'earrrd great things of you."

"Président." He nodded, in assent to he knew not what, and continued his customary reserve. With persons who had an interest of their own in saving time, affairs were usually settled fastest if he did not interfere too much.

"Would you like to try the excellent service of the 'ouse? I am informed you are familiar with our beautiful capital and its merits. Then of course you must know that de cuisine is not the least of those."

Mechanically, Holmes ordered coffee, brioche and jam, his suspicions rising that he was being prepared for something unpleasant. Président Faure, meanwhile, had passed on to his after breakfast cigar.

"Mr. Holmes, Minister President Ribot 'as reported to me all de particulairs of yesterday's meeting. He wishes to furnish you with all de assistance you may require, both from the Sûrété and from Monsieur Sorel of the Louvre museum. We 'ope that their cooperatiooon is satisfactor-ie, and that you will let us know if you should see any obstacles, so we may remove them for you."

"I am satisfied with the cooperation of these excellent gentlemen, thank you", Holmes quietly professed.

"Capital! Capital!" Faure nodded, benevolently, but not yet quite content. "And Monsieur Simon afterwards discussed all the particulairs of the case with you, I understand? He laid everything open-lie before you?"

A non-committal wave of the hand was all the reply he got. Holmes was now rather sure he knew where this was going, but, by Jove, it was Faure who wanted something here. He would not come to his help, or try to make things easier for him.

"Very well. As far as we can tell, there is nobody beside the restorer - who has disappeared - to sound out, except that young lady, her acquaintance. In fact, Mr. Holmes - "he moved a little closer to make it quite a conspiratorial tête-à-tête. Holmes, ever averse to great closeness, intuitively drew aside. " - it is the official opiniooon that the impending investigatiooon will be focussed on 'er person, at least until she can be cleared of suspicion. Now Monsieur Simon tells us that, to complicate matterrrs, you are known to the young person, and she to you. Is this the case? Because if so, I must ask you, very earnestly ask you, whether you are able to maintain a neutral stance in this affair."

To economise on words, Holmes tried a certain look that would generally do the trick on occasions like this - a look that possessed the power to shrink the questioner to a handy size and bend him into a supplicant's pose - but it appeared that with a man of Faure's calibre, he would have to be bothered to explain himself.

"Monsieur le Président, it is very comprehensible that such a constellation should give cause for concern. It is also true that I know the person in question - or rather, knew her, for our acquaintance lies many years back."

Faure gesticulated with his cigar. "Precisely so, it is a cause for concern. We must be sure that you can be trusted with the handling of this matterrr under the given circumstances. Mind you, we are of course grateful that you answered our call for help so readi-lie - "

Holmes, recalling the nature of his invitation, or rather abduction, uttered a stifled sound somewhere between a whimper and a laugh.

" - however, the affair is too delicate not to be treated with the utmost care. Of course, we know your powers and reliabili-tie from former occasions, which is why I leave it for you to judge: Do you feel capable of continuing on this case?"

At this point, breakfast was served. Holmes, who felt his headache of the early morning return, swallowed a cup of scalding hot coffee to alleviate it, before he replied.

"Président Faure, I am not renowned for the warmth of my affections, but very well able to control emotion when it threatens to interfere with business. I will be honest, and tell you that the lady in question was, as a child, very dear to my deceased wife, and to me as well. However, that is all in the past. I barely know the person she has become, and what I have seen of her so far does not please me much. If it turns out she has anything at all to do with the disappearance of the - of the treasure - you may rest assured I will not be tempted to spare her for old times' sake."

"Magnifique!" A grim, walrus-like smile spread on the face of Félix Faure, head of state and suddenly very busy, very eager to be gone. "That is exactly what I hoped to hear. Mr. Holmes, I give you free reign, with the only request that you will let us know if you make any progress. I will bid you adieu now, and hope to hear from you soon. It was a pleasure indeed to make your acquaintance, and as you say in England - Godspeed!"

But the man thus favoured listened with only half an ear. While a valet rushed into the room with his master's pâletot and walking stick, and Faure made ready to leave the hotel, he was still sitting there deep in thoughts, crumbling a piece of brioche all over the plate set before him.

 **Hullo! Sorry for the wait, but the nicest things in life are not necessarily the ones with the first priority. I hope to update more regularly again from now on, though.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **Best, Mrs. F**


	6. Chapter 6

The odd couple

„ _The way seems difficult and steep to scale/_

 _With upright wings against a higher foe_."

Paradise Lost

It was in the afternoon of the next day that I saw him again.

My day had been mirthless drudgery so far. A delivery from a local supplier had proven incomplete, and of course Madame had sent me to settle the unpleasant affair with the tradesman. On my return, I realized my bungling colleagues had used my absence to make a mess of a rather expensive bale of duchesse, cutting it up into all the wrong lengths. Lectured and sent back to their ordinary chores, they aimed foul glances at me from time to time as I was sitting at my work table and trying to save what was left of the bale. At around noon, the delivery was repeated according to my request, and again things were missing from the order.

It goes without saying that Madame was not very well pleased with the outcome of my intervention, much less with the ruined duchesse. In her treatment of me, she was no less severe than she was toward the other seamstresses, even though more responsibility rested on my shoulders and my work was more valuable to her. On the contrary, she deigned it appropriate to blame me for the collective fault, and reproached me for failing her as a supervisor.

Thus, my mood was at zero level already when at five o'clock, I locked up the shop behind the last tardy girl. She flitted past me, of a sudden immensely eager to escape into her treasured Saturday evening and free Sunday, before on Monday morning dreary workaday life would again absorb her. I could only too well imagine what she was all about: Listen to Yvette Guilbert at the Lido or the Casino de Paris, made up in her best finery, smiling and laughing her dumb laugh along with many glasses of champagne and cups of black coffee. Presumably, she had some kind of beau who would help her while the night away, a fellow as witless as she, with no aim in life but to raise enough money soon, so he might marry her. On the morrow, after long, restful hours of sleep, she would meet with the other girls from the shop. They would go to a coffee house or cheap restaurant, and chatter about their respective suitors, and rail against evil me. I could see it all before me.

I, however, had other plans. There were no admirers waiting, no friends either, since the disappearance of Madame Zhao. But I would not be idle. I would browse order catalogues for Madame Martinez, do the weekly accounting and finish one or two details on a special commission I had taken home. The two evenings at my disposal bore red marks in my calendar: Saturday, there was a soirée at the Opera Garnier, where I would spy on the finesses of the ladies' wardrobe, and Sunday I had a dinner appointment at Maxim's with a former competitor who was on the point of liquidating his business, and intended to sell stock and machines to us. Besides, there was a broken shade at my place that needed fixing. Altogether I could not complain about lack of occupation. Therefore, I did not envy the girl that virtually bounced down the sidewalk toward the metro station, sunlight playing with her golden plaited hair - why would I? With a small sigh, I slipped the keys into my bag and made to follow her with a more measured step.

There was an intersection just a few steps behind the boutique, and from thence, a long shadow was cast over my path, a shadow of unwelcome familiarity. I raised my eyes.

„Hello, Frances", a calm voice said.

In the twilight of the narrow side road, Sherlock Holmes rested his back against a cast-iron street light, arms crossed over his chest. Automatically, my jaw set, and my eyes narrowed to slits like those of a cornered cat.

„Whatcha want?"

„I want to talk to you."

I did not bother to stop, but he followed as I continued down the road.

„What about?"

He had caught up with me quickly, and now stood in my way, towering over me in a way I resented, because it reminded me of intimidation attempts made by my dealers and other partners in negotiation. My irritation drew my brows closely together, but that was not sufficient to make him step aside.

„About our meeting yesterday. Frances, it was not right to send you away in that manner. Your resentment is understandable and I was a fool to let it annoy me. However, these prejudices must be disregarded if any progress in the investigation is to be made. You DO wish us to make progress, don't you?"

I hesitated. All that hatred was back with a hot and mighty surge; it seemed to boil in my throat and my heart beat faster. He was a murderer! He had slain my Aunt Cathy, had he not? It was not safe to get involved with him. He was cold.

But he was also brilliant. That I could not ignore. Maybe there was truth in what he said…if I could bring myself to trust him, Madame Zhao might be discovered. As far as she was concerned, I had long counted out the police. She had known they could not help her, she must have had reasons for saying these words: „Do not go to the police, girl. Tell them nothing."

But what was there even to tell? Everything was so awfully obscure. There was just nothing solid to go on.

Holmes could see my hesitation. He took a step toward me, fixing his intense, hypnotic gaze on me. I shuddered with resentment, with wrath.

„Frances. This woman could be in severe danger. It is more than probable that she has the King's Orb, or that she knows where it is. There are people who would not mind violence if it helps to get at the treasure. Madame Zhao might have flown such people; and if we can find her before they do, it will be none too early, that much I can promise you."

I felt my mouth open and close stupidly, like a dumb fish. The picture he painted of Madame Zhao's probable situation had been decisive, and yet I could hardly bring myself to acknowledge it. The pain ran deep, and I did not want to risk a loss of face with Holmes.

„What are ye going ter do?" I finally asked.

„Talk to you", he said simply.

oooOOOooo

We sat in the small chocolatérie off the Boulevard Haussmann. I would have preferred somewhere more alcoholic, for I needed a drink for my shattered nerves, but it was the closest place, and didn't matter anyway.

My hands nursed a cup of chocolat chaud which I didn't taste, my lips were set too grimly to allow a single drop in. He was smoking profusely, as he had always done. The thought that he, too, might be nervous, made its tentative appearance, but was dismissed as irrelevant. Besides, he had drained my patience.

„Well, Mr. `olmes? `ow can I contribute to the investigation? All I know I've already set down in me statement." Unconsciously, I maintained a stiff posture and a straight back. He should consider me a sceptic, not an instrument in his undertaking.

He inhaled deeply. „We all know precious little, Frances, that is the point. Madame Zhao is an extraordinary restorer. The damaged artifact is of extraordinary value. She gets the commission in spite of prejudice against her ethnicity. Within two weeks, she disappears. Her flat is devastated. The Orb is gone."

He leaned forward, again fixing his gaze on me. „Is there really nothing you can add to this, Frances?"

I opened my mouth, closed it again, and shook my head.

He appeared to wait in a state of suspension, with a strange glint to his eye. Then, disappointed, he collapsed back into his seat. „Very well. The done thing is now, for the investigator, to comprehend the character of the person in question as precisely as possible, so as to be able to estimate the considerations that may have motivated her course of action."

„You want me to describe `er character?" I fell silent, chewing my lower lip. „I haven't known her that long. Jus' about a year."

He waved me away. „Time does not matter. You remain the most reliable source as regards her person."

„She was `eadstrong", I said, suddenly. „What she wanted had ter be done. I remember makin' some suggestions when she placed her first commission. She wouldn't `ear of any changes. She even chid me for suggesting them."

„She was fond of things? Material things, that is?"

I gave him a nasty look. „No, not the way you fink. She _loved_ things. That's different."

He quirked an eyebrow. „In what way?"

„Well, she did like to collect things. By Jove, `er place is one single big museum", I said and suddenly had to laugh. „She likes to look at things, touch things, play wiv `em. But she does not need to possess `em. Many o` her collections just seem to be there to spark interesting conversation. She gives them away in the end, mostly."

„And what collections are those?"

I furrowed my brow. „All kinds of things. She collects soapstone figurines…china dolls…materials, like papers and silks…origami…chinese knots….Herbs and spices…"

„And she freely gives them away? To whom?"

I shrugged my shoulders. „To visitors, colleagues….jus' people she has to do wiv. It is a Chinese habit. I could never leave `er place wivout one or two gifts, and often more."

„What did she give you, then?"

I disliked the tone of his question. My reply was frigid. „Food, mos'ly. She is a very capable cook. Sometimes clothes, jewellery. Nothing of value."

„But she treated everyone this way?"

„I suppose I was a bit of a favorite. She has a short, imperative temper, and therefore, she is somewhat lonelier than need be. She appreciates society very much, but sometimes frightens visitors away wiv `er o'erwhelming hospitality. People fear they are expected to return her generosity, and are never seen again."

„What do you mean by that?"

„Well, it seems logical, doesn't it? People are not used to these manners. They feel trapped, and it embarrasses them to `ave gifts pressed on them against their will. Also, she always thinks she knows what is best for everyone. Once, it was her desire ter present me wiv some old pieces from her wardrobe. I told her quite blatantly I did not want `em, and she would keep telling me I was a fool not to have these very good things, and in the end, I had to take `em. Another time, she made me accept a glass o' green tea leaves, although I thoroughly dislike green tea. She just repeated its health benefits o'er and o'er again."

Almost exhausted, I stopped, tears pricking in my eyes. Madame Zhao just could not be gone forever. She was one of the finest persons I had ever known, despite her many faults. It is not in the nature of mankind to recognize a gem when it is presented with one, and in this, I presume, lies the reason why she was not as popular as she wished to be. Also, she had been born a child of the East, and things had never been easy for her in France. Now I comprehended that, and if she had been there this very moment, I would have told her so.

Holmes seemed to realize my thoughts had drifted away, for he busied himself with his pocket watch for some moments to give me time to compose myself. I finally took a sip of my chocolat chaud and furtively looked at him.

He looked older than in my memory, that is true. Seven years had passed since the event that had brought our peaceful Sussex life to a sudden end. They had changed him as they had me, and we, once uncle and niece, had turned into strangers. But the fault was his, and, while time had made me into a successful, independent professional, it had degraded him to the dwindling fame and powers of middle age. His prime was over, and mine had just begun.

The sound of his voice roused me from my brown study. Mildly confused, I set down my cup and uselessly stirred the drink which had grown cold. „I beg your Pardon?"

„Madame's flat", he repeated, patiently. „I intend to go there tomorrow and look for such evidence which has not already been disturbed by the helpful hand of the Metropolitan Police. It would be useful to have you there too, if….if you are prepared to come."

I met his gaze with, I suppose a somewhat defiant expression. „Certainly, why not. That is, if it does not take too long, for I still have other things ter do."

„We will make it as short as possible", Holmes observed, signaling to the waiter that we wished to leave. „Two of the clock at Montmartre." His tone had grown as cold as my beverage, and I could glean from it that he shared my desire: The soonest possible termination of our cooperation, so that we might be allowed to pursue separate paths again.

ooooOOOooo

„Where is it?" the man asked for the third time, his voice high and snarling.

For the third time, Madame Zhao shook her head, facing down, so she would not have to look at her interrogator.

„Ah, very well. You seem to have befriended the bugs in your new abode." She knew without looking the man smiled a his horrible smile. Her hair, filthy and hanging down, saved her from the the sight even of his person. Only the tips of his patent leather shoes were visible to her, as she peered immovably to the floor. „We can see to it you and they are reunited. Maybe you will find them grown in number. But I'm sure you won't mind, as they will constitute your diet from now on."

The patent leather shoes moved out of her field of vision, and strong hands grabbed her under her arms to remove her to her cell. All the way there, she was bullied, but it was easy to withstand their attempts to make her speak after she had sat out the patent leather man. It was not as though she had proven particular constance by refusing to speak. Her life depended on it.

 **Hiya!**

 **I hope you enjoyed the chapter. As always goes: I am open for criticism and suggestions, so don't hesitate!**

 **Also belle époque Paris is always worth a study, but good sources are rare. If you know any informative online articles or such, I would also be grateful for a hint.**

 **Thank you!**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	7. Chapter 7

La vie de Saint Lazare

„ _Vain wisdom all, and false philosophy" Paradise Lost_

We met according to appointment on the following day. He had brought the keys, left to his good care by the Metropolitan Police, and together we entered the flat.

Devastation was rife, as I could see turning around on the tips of my toes, mouth hanging wide open I am afraid. Madame Zhao's beautiful porcelain wall décor had been smashed to pieces on the floor, her stone figurines were scattered over the work tables and there were books with pages ripped out everywhere. I felt like crying. What a swine can man become, to bring destruction over such an oasis of harmony?

Passing my hand over the rails where she used to array her neat small brushes and spatulas, I spied them lying on the floor, mostly mangled or broken. Mechanically, I squatted to pick them up, and restored the intact ones to their places. It was only on the periphery of awareness that I realized Holmes was trying to address me.

„Frances?"

I turned around, still in my stupor and with the shard of a very small file in my hand.

Holmes had closed up on me across the room, sternly peering down into my face. „You see? This is why I need your help. You are looking at the work of Madame Zhao's abductors. Better do not try to imagine what they might do to her, if we don't step between her and them."

I allowed that to settle before I replied. I did not want to seem too deep in shock, it would not do to demonstrate weakness with the fellow. „But wha' can be done?" was my careful answer.

„I am not sure…" He frowned, whipped out his magnifying lens and dropped to his haunches to have a look at the table surfaces. Hesitatingly, I wandered through the studio.

Was it possible Madame had hidden the treasure somewhere here, somewhere the brutes had been unable to find, so they had to take her away instead? The place appeared to have been searched pretty thoroughly. It hurt to enter the kitchen, whence a strongly aromatic scent emanated, and find all the spices from her cabinet spilt on the tiles, where they combined into a strangely marvelous tableau of reds, browns and yellows. No, no. These people, whoever they were, had done their job properly.

I returned to the studio. Holmes, meanwhile, had stepped onto one of the tables, subjecting the lantern-like lamp suspended from the ceiling to a cursory search. His long hands slipped into the hollow body, feeling their way down to the light bulb.

„Anyfink?" I asked, fainthearted.

He turned his face toward me, shaking his head mutely. I cast down my eyes. Hands folded on my back, I continued my ramble among the tables.

There was, in one of the four corners, a round lacquered table that was not meant for work. Madame and I had passed many happy hours here - it was her tea table. But the fine tea things now were, like everything else, cluttered on the chairs and on the parquet. Getting down on my knees, I reassembled everything, broken or unbroken, into my lap….fragments of cups and almond biscuits, silver spoons, the tea strainer. The paraphernalia of her last repast.

I violently fought back tears, my back rounding over the small heap in my lap. No crying. It was bad enough as it was, but no crying in front of Holmes. No way.

One by one, I picked up the things and set them down on the table top. Somewhere in the background, Holmes was rumbling and shifting around furniture. I ignored him, and got up to sit on one of the chairs, drumming my fingertips on the surface of the table. There was nothing else for me to do. Why had I come? Everything else set aside, Holmes was as capable a detective as there was to be had. My presence here was quite superfluous.

There was a round, lacquered disk centered on the table which could be spun around its axis. As always when I was idling in this place, my fingers extended toward it to spin it playfully. However, it was not going - something was stuck underneath, as happened not infrequently thanks to Madame's love of putting things on the table for her guests to look at.

It was a book - the upper half stuck out from underneath, as though someone had picked it up and tossed it back onto the table impatiently. I withdrew it to unblock the disk, and cast a brief glance at the cover.

Only for the fraction of a second, my motion froze. The stiff, black cover showed the medieval picture of a man with regular features, a halo around his head and a white stole around his shoulder with red crosses on it. Above the picture, bold white letters said:

 ** _La Vie de St. Lazare_**

With trembling fingers, I opened it and leafed through it. Nothing worth note presented itself to sight, but I refrained from searching it further. Half-turning around my head, I peeped over my shoulder. Holmes' back was turned at me, so I quickly opened my bag and slipped the volume into it. Then I got up and strolled towards him, as if tired of the inspection.

„Still nofink?" I inquired, and feigned a suppressed yawn.

„Less then nothing", he replied, sounding a little discouraged. „This has proven rather a dead end."

„It was worth trying. Still, we should go now - I have yet some work to do, and I want to be on time fer me dinna appointment."

His eyebrows twitched. „Your - ?"

I frowned. „Why, what's it to you?"

„Why, nothing…" He relaxed into an, as he might think, inoffensive attitude. „Only, I suppose Watson might want to be informed if you are going out on dinners and such."

Rage threatened to build up inside me again. You might think we were in 1830 for all that he was saying. The man was so out of touch with the times!

„He is not my father, Mr. ´olmes", I returned icily. „And by the way, neither are you. In fact, I could not think of anybody less suitable fer the position - not even my biological father."

„And good riddance to us all", he gibed. „I see, you are very much your own person, grown-up, responsible, and independent. No, pray do not bother to light a cigarette to prove the point. According to your fingertips' testimony, you privately dislike it."

Taken aback, I involuntarily glanced at my hands, white and free from the blemishes caused by regular tobacco consumption.

„One last thing", he added, as he locked the door of the apartment behind us. „If I have not succeeded impressing on you the precarious situation of madame Zhao, I hope the wreckage in this place has. So if you have any piece to contribute to the puzzle, you ought to feel morally bound to do so."

His last words were accompanied by a severity of mien that made me flush.

„I will do all that is in me power ter find `er, of course. On`y I don't know how ter go about it…how ter begin".

„That", Holmes returned plainly, „is for me to agonize about."

oooOOOooo

And indeed, he had fairly little to go on. The rooms had yielded a pittance of information about their owner: A creative intelligence, inflammable temper, a strict aesthete, hysterectomy some ten years ago, deep-seated family resentments, affectionate but unforgiving nature, a secret desire to keep South American Blue Parrots. And about the intruders: Rash and unquestioned action according to order, paid subalterns, not above average intelligence but with systematic procedure and a quasi-professional discipline, a band of four to five men. One of them walked pigeon-toed.

A cool shower in the marble splendor of his Le Meurice bathroom did not bring further enlightenment. He would have to try a whole different approach, he thought, as he reclined his head to rinse his hair. This affair about the orb was ambivalent, as he had recognized from the beginning. It could point both ways: Meant to damage England, possibly even Her Majesty's person, or to do derogate the Third Republic in the eyes of the world.

A third possibility was a political scheme to cause discord between the two states, but he tended to dismiss that. A national heirloom had been damaged, a women had been abducted, her flat and belongings had been ruined. There was a personal touch in all of this, yes, all this outré violence smacked of hatred, not of cool calculation. And since he had come to France and found nothing here, maybe it was time to return to England and continue the search there.

He spied his pale, vague reflection in the clouded glass and hesitated. It was all too well possible that his desire to return home stemmed from ulterior motives. Pensively, he turned the faucets and stepped out of the stall, reaching for a flannel to wrap himself in. He was glad for the steam that had condensed on the mirrors. There were no reflecting surfaces in his bathroom in Sussex, nor in the one at Baker Street.

His time with Kitty had helped a great deal to come to terms with his body, but some things strike roots too deep for eradication. The corporeal horrors of transpiration, defecation, copulation et cetera were still apt to fill him with revulsion and make him take flight into the realms of clear, uncorrupted spirituality. It had grown worse again after her death, and age added more reasons to prefer not seeing himself in a state of deshabille. But perchance, it might cure him of foolish notions. His hand slowly extended towards the glass to wipe across it, hesitated and withdrew.

He lived to deteriorate and to finally grow old, while Kitty's youth was conserved in the living image of that girl, curse her! He objected to her personally: Her snippy, self-complacent demeanour, her obtrusive assurance of being competent and autonomous contrasted sharply with the soft femininity of her late relative. However, that did not change the fact that every glance he got of her was like a needle under his skin, every movement that defined her body beneath the thin materials she wore, produced sultry scenes in his mind, overexcited as it was by the pseudo-familiar stimulus.

He wished he could be done with her, never see her again. He might do so with a clear conscience if she had told him all she could. But she was a liar, and today, she had betrayed herself.

oooOOOooo

She had terminated the Cuulanhaasankhaya Sutra and speedily browsed her mind for other Sutras that destroyed craving. Her stomach felt shrunken to a third of its usual size, and in very short time, she would have to act on patent leather man's suggestion that she eat the vermin in her dark cell. Still, death was imminent, and she knew it. It was just a question of when.

Oh, she had hidden the gem well, in a place where only the girl could find it. If she had the sense to keep her mouth shut, all would be well. In time, it could be restored to its rightful owner. Anyhow, death was preferable to seeing this treasure in the hands of the demon she had faced.

Madame Zhao had seen his face once, and ever since had done her best to avoid looking at him. He was not in any way disfigured, or even ugly, but the way his eyes made her feel cold was enough not to repeat the experience. Her senses had been schooled well to detect what is beautiful not only on the outside, but also within, and with this mental equipment, she hardly felt up to confrontation with the utterly evil.

She wondered how much longer she could last before she lost her reason.

oooOOOooo

The night from Sunday to Monday was unnecessarily shortened by the jammed shade on my window that could not be lowered. The light of day brutally put an end to my slumbers, thirty minutes before I had to get up. I growled, and flung one arm across my face to cover my eyes. It really had to be fixed.

Calling to mind yesterday's dinner, I found that things had gone quite to my interest. We could take over twenty sewing machines, almost new, one dozen bales of taffeta and half a dozen bales each of mulberry silk and Dupion silk. Everything would change hands for three quarters of the market price. Besides, Monsieur - what was his name? - Monsieur Ghislaine had been rather charming.

The same could not be said of every man I had had to do with on Sunday, I thought angrily. Why had I allowed myself to be surprised by these clownish tricks I knew from my childhood days? Of course, nobody could hide anything from Holmes, I should have known when I had reached for my cigarette case. But if he thought I was holding back anything of importance, that was mere surmise, and he could not make me reveal anything. Not that there was much to reveal, anyway. I certainly could make neither head nor tail of what Madame had said the last time I had seen her. Why should I not talk to the police? What could I possibly tell them?

But then, there was the other thing. Thoughtfully, I reached for the book that was lying on my bedside table, to leaf through as I had done many times before going to bed on the previous night. _La vie de Saint Lazare_ was a regular saint's vita, a topic I was not awfully interested in. Of course I knew all about the saints from Sunday school, Aunt Mary had seen to that. I knew St. Lazarus had been some bishop or other, that he effected a resurrection, was a patron of the lepers and founded an order of healers. Madame Zhao had been reared a Christian, but I knew that unlike most members of her family, she adhered to Buddha's teachings. So why would she have this book?

I saw no way to solve the puzzle. If I had trusted him, I might have talked to Holmes. He was not a policeman, and perhaps he would have been able to tell the meaning of all this. But he remained Holmes, the man who had provoked the suicide of my kin. An alliance with him was unthinkable.

The bells of the church in my quarter struck seven, and I dragged myself out of bed.

 **Hi guys!**

 **As you can see, I'm still working on it! :-))**

 **What do you think of the development, and is everybody taking a correct stance here? What can be done to improve the situation?**

 **Lots of love, Mrs. F**


	8. Chapter 8

Sussex

 _„_ _One of the banished crew/ I fear, hath ventured from the deep, to raise/New troubles"_

 _Paradise Lost_

The train sped swiftly through the lush landscape. Holmes inhaled deeply. England was, at any rate, a place where things at least seemed to be as they should - all though he knew better than most people that they were not. But the illusion created by scenic views, correct timetables and regular railroad service was nothing less than pleasant.

He was glad to have turned his back on France. It was not easy to accept the rough social conditions at Paris with one's personal childhood memories, soft-tinted and idealized, hazily looming in the background. Also, he realized missing certain things from his rural day-to-day life: The smell of fresh hay stacks when he opened his window first thing in the morning, the absence of traffic noise - London had become unbearable over the past years! - and the taste of his own honey on warm muffins. He might be an elderly imbecile, but home was home after all.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting by the door. She looked frail, her robust frame dwindled fast. He ought to dismiss her into her well deserved retirement, Holmes thought reluctantly. A substitute could be found without doubt. But Mrs. Hudson had seen and, to some degree, shared so much of his life and career - the beginning of his friendship with Watson, the many cases they had solved together. His triumphs and failures. His ill-fated marriage. His son, eagerly expected and disappointedly abandoned. Mrs. Hudson had witnessed it all, not always silently, not always with approval, but she had been there, her presence a constant steadier than even Watson's. An absolute value.

He greeted her briefly, his voice restrained. There was no need to discuss particulars of his journey. Mrs. Hudson knew she would not be told anything much, which did not keep her from complaining volubly about his sudden disappearance and his reappearance on short notice. Couldn't he let her know if he intended to be absent? How was she to tell whether he was away traveling, or had been abducted? And when should she inform the police in such a case? And would it really, really be so hard to send word that he would not be home for dinner? A good partridge had gone to waste over his caprice.

He listened to her stream of talk, using it as a meditative backdrop to his musings. Where would he find a man with sufficient personal grudge against England to rob it of a symbol of national pride? Ah, once the list of likely candidates would have been long in his mind. But today, he was out of touch, too far removed from where affairs of national interest were negotiated. The great criminals of his time mostly were no longer active - they were dead, retired or rotting away behind the bars. Maybe he could get an audience with Queen Victoria, who after all owned the missing piece? But the rumor was that the old lady did not receive many people these days, and if she did, it was with only partial presence of mind. So why bother?

Another possible partner was Scotland Yard. The new men there were from a different mould than the ones in his day: Young active men, working with modern methods and trying new scientific approaches. However, he no longer had any contacts there….and if he tried to establish them, most likely he would be stamped a funny old man, a relict from the past, curious in himself, but hardly to be taken seriously. An oddity.

He briefly listened in to Mrs. Hudson's volubility. Something had caught his attention, some detail in the stream of her speech suddenly struck him as being out of the ordinary. It was necessary to trace it in a backward jog through her utterances; and to dig deeper and unearth it.

„Pray excuse me, Mrs. Hudson, I had been distracted. You were saying?"

His landlady gave him an incredulous look. She was not accustomed to him actually listening, much less posing questions. It was just a routine they had - she was rummaging in her kitchen with him sitting at the old, rustic table in deep thought, and she did the talking to fill the expanding silence. It was never meant as a dialogue, but as a soliloquy.

However, since he had shown interest, she did him the courtesy to interrupt her chit-chat or rather, and to skip backwards.

„The old farmhouse across the field, Mr. Holmes. No, I don't mean Miss Mildred's farm. We're talking about the old homestead amongst the elderbushes. Now you don't mean to tell me you never saw it? Heaven's, you have lived here for years!"

Holmes racked his brain for more information. It was a fact that he was not given to take strolls in the neighboring countryside, and yet, he had mapped it neatly in his mind, with all relevant landmarks dotted onto the softly undulating landscape. How was it possible he should have missed this point?

„Remind me, Mrs. Hudson. Who lives there? The Eliots? The Parsons?"

She gazed at him as though he had lost his reason. „Why no, Mr. Holmes, it has been empty most of the time! Usually, there is nobody staying there!"

„Ah!" He exhaled with relief, glad for an explanation. The place was uninhabited, and therefore irrelevant. It had not been graced with a reference on his mental map, though presently, he dimly remembered having seen the gables now and again from the road, as he passed by. Good, that was settled.

„So, why should this abandoned grange arouse your interest?"

„It is _not_ abandoned, Mr. Holmes!" She corrected him strictly. „It is somebody's holiday home, some London party I think I have heard. Only they have not been here since - „

She choked on her words and faltered, helpless. He watched her without mercy, until she had recovered.

„ - for seven years or so."

„I see." He still eyed her stonily. „And suddenly, they returned? A sensation indeed in this part of the world, I must confess. But pray, do not overexcite yourself. You might forget to attend to the oven."

„Oh, my!" She rushed to save her crumpets with a tad more than the hurry the occasion called for; too glad to escape his eyes. Holmes watched her bustle here and there, and wondered.

oooOOOooo

I learned of Holmes' departure only on Tuesday, when I called at the Le Meurice. It was my desire to know whether his search for the orb had advanced a little - and was politely, but determinedly turned away by the porter. No, he could not divulge any information about a guest. Mr. Holmes' whereabouts were a matter of the utmost discretion on the part of the hotel. Had I not been well-spoken and dressed in the best of taste, he would probably have called security to escort me into the street - I clearly did not belong here, in this marbled mausoleum.

The next obvious place to go was the Sûreté, and thus, I directed my steps there. I asked for M. Dulage, who at least knew who I was, and was admitted soon.

„Ah, Mademoiselle Morris. What a pleasant surprise!" He looked surprised indeed. After my rebellion against him pestering me at the boutique, it must needs strike him as exceptional that I should make a voluntary visit. Suddenly, I hoped he would not misinterpret it as me making a pass at him - he was young, and handsome enough, if you disregarded the pronounced malposition of his inward-pointing feet.

„You have remembered something you wish to communicate?" He asked politely, but with a pleasant smile I hurried to discourage.

„No, no, Superintendent. It is jus' that I am trying ter find Mr. `olmes - he wan't at his hotel when I called s little while ago, and they wouldna tell me where to look fer `im. Maybe you have been in touch…?"

„Ah…yes." He turned serious in a wink. „Very sorry, Mademoiselle, but Mr. Holmes has returned to England and left a note which did not make it clear when we should expect him back. However, you need not worry. The Sûreté has not given up on the search for Madame Zhao. Pray rest assured we are doing everything that it is in our power to do."

„Thank you, Superintendent. That's very reassuring", I murmured mechanically, indifferent whether he realized that I was not reassured at all. What was Holmes all about? Had _he_ given up the case? All at once, I panicked. He could not just leave in the midst of an investigation! Why had he not informed me about his steps? Surely, the police were no good. Madame Zhao had told me so in her very own words. Suddenly, in spite of all my resentments, it dawned upon me that he was not my best, but my only chance to see her again!

There was no sense, no sense in anything he was doing. The crime had been perpetrated here, in Paris. There was no reason to assume either the treasure or Madame were in England, or had left the country at all. He had left again! He had left me in the lurch!

Suddenly, I could not breathe. My clasped hands seemed very small, stifling the sounds of my struggle for air. I whimpered. I was alone, alone at sea, on a ship that was carrying me back to my harsh, obtuse, loveless mother! The foam was flying high. I could not breathe. Ginger Jack, crouching by my calves, meowed pitifully. Shy, clouds, waves, all painted a dark swirl, a vortex that sucked me in without mercy.

I was drowning! The ship was sailing above the sea, but I felt the heavy pressure of water on my lungs, as I tried to inhale with increasing difficulty. The world above water disappeared beyond the waves closing over my head. Aunt Cathy! Sweet aunt Cathy! Help me! My arms flailed helplessly in the sombre shadows of the deep sea. I could not breathe. I could not breathe. Mr. Holmes, Aunt Cathy! To help! Mr. Holmes! Father…..!

When I woke up to the leathery smell of a couch, I felt tears streaming down on both sides of my face.

oooOOOooo

His first impression was that Mrs. Hudson must have been mistaken. The house among the elder bushes was clearly vacant. Also, there was no sign anywhere to be found, no indication of a tenant. It was only on closer inspection that he found evidence of recent occupation - fading wheel marks in the ground, occasional traces of horse manure, the driver's cigarette studs close to the house.

It was in no good condition. Missing roof tiles and a shutter hanging loosely from the hinges enhanced the impression of decay, especially from the distance. But as he approached, Holmes detected further signs of tenancy. A peep behind the loose shutter presented to view a room fully furnished - the only unusual thing being the white linen which covered everything, as if the denizens did not intend to return for a long time to come.

For a while, he hesitated whether to force his way into the building, but finally decided against it. It did not seem as if any personal belongings had been left behind, so ransacking the place would not tell him much. He could save himself the trouble of crossing the blurred line between legality and illegality, and seek out the land registry office for information.

He was just turning away to take his leave when something by the door arrested his attention. Indeed, there it was, if only very small: The name plate he had in vain looked for at the gate. On stepping closer, it read: T. Rhys-Folmec. He scribbled it down as a precaution, his brows drawn. A curious name. Irish, wasn't it? He was sure never to have heard it pronounced in these parts.

Pensively, he struck the path he had come, back down to the road.

oooOOOooo

My dear uncle Jonathan,

How are you out there at the Great Reef? You describe such delightful scenes that I would fain like to join you in this adventure. But alas! Your profession is not for one of my sex. However, I am confident brother Nicholas will one day followed its call, so that you will have at least one worthy successor in the family.

In your last, you wrote a lot about the line they are establishing between Darwin and Port Moresby on the island of Papua. I entreat you, do not volunteer to serve on this line! The most frightful tales are being told about this strange island and the gruesome folk that peoples it. If you land there, you might be captured by a cannibal tribe, and serve as a Sunday roast! If you will listen to a warning voice, shipping frozen mutton is much safer for you.

My own life is very much the same as ever. Work, of course, there is to be sure, but I enjoy Parisian nightlife a lot and explore the city with my friends every day after hours. We meet a lot of interesting people and the varietés and cabarets are ever so amusing! It is just the best place on earth to have a jolly good time. Honestly, I trust I am playing more than I am working, and yet I make a good salary!

But in any event, I can give that up any time, for there are enough eligible young men offering me marriage! If I wanted to, I could lead the life of a fancy lady - but I enjoy myself far too much for that! I can scarcely find the time to write this letter.

You asked whether the Chinese lady that is missing is my Chinese lady. It is amazing how fast news are traveling these days! I suppose it must be this new telegraphy network which seems to span the entire globe. Imagine you, at the brims of civilization, reading the latest French newspapers! It is very impressive.

Unfortunately, you are right, it is "my" chinese lady. However, I am sorry if I should have exaggerated my relationship with her in my previous letters. Actually, she was not much more than a regular client I did some fittings with. I hardly knew her at all.

By the way, I have met an old acquaintance from England, Aunt Cathy's widower. I don't suppose you will remember him much, and neither do I. He has some little part in the investigation of this affair concerning the King's Orb, being a detective, as you may recall. We exchanged courtesy calls.

What else is new? Ah yes, my birthday the other week. It was nothing much: The girls at work baked a cake for me, and in the evening, my friends gave a little party in my honour. André Dulage, who wants to be my suitor, was there and he got so drunk that it was quite shocking, but so funny we forgave him! I have not accepted him as a suitor, of course, but we can be friends, can't we?

Please tell me more about the corals, and the starfish, and all the dazzling colors of the reef! And remember what I said about Papua.

Many Kisses, Your loving niece

Fanny

 **Dear readers!**

 **What think you of this letter? I would die to know it. I know some girls like Frances, but maybe I did not quite hit the tone.**

 **Anyway! I hope you enjoyed! Next chapter will be up soon.**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	9. Chapter 9

**All the way up the Apples**

„ _League with you I seek/ And mutual amity so strait, so close/That I with you must dwell, or you with me._ " Paradise Lost

Frances' movements, her head bowed over her work, her lithe body twisting around the mannequin to secure this fold and that with a pin - they were painfully like Kitty's. He watched her for a couple of minutes without her knowledge, until Madame Martinez found an opportunity of approaching her and getting her away from her task.

The sight of the young and white skin gave him an inward shiver - it was the flesh of his wife, a woman so long in her grave now, eaten by worms for the most part, but eternally young an lively in his recollection. And now, to support the vision, her living image came toward him and fueled his dolour. Frances raised her chin, unaware of the tempest that raged in his chest.

„Where `ave ya been?"

„At home, in England."

He cast down his eyes before her evident wrath. Like Kitty. So like Kitty.

„So I `ave `eard. It would of been kinder, Mr. `olmes, if you `ad informed me of your decision ter go away. As you may remember, I take some li`le personal interest in this affair. It woulda been nice ter know you wa`nt giving up on`t.

He would be damned if he kept her informed of his steps, the little liar. Reason returned in a sudden flux whose impact dispelled all feelings except that of profound distrust. Despite all physical resemblance to the woman he had loved - it was necessary for him to recall that the young seamstress was a different person entirely, and that he did not know her.

No doubt Watson had given her a clean and neat christian upbringing, sincerely devoting his energies to the reparation of flaws her earlier life had instilled in her. But when all was said and done, Frances was a child of the street, forever pursuing her own advantage. She was not to be trusted.

„I am so sorry, Frances. I did not think this purely private detour of mine could possibly interest you. Maybe you will be reconciled if I tell you that I am the bearer of kind wishes and presents? Your Uncle John sends a supply of books he hopes you will like. I have them in a valise in the cab outside."

Her face seemed to light up for a second, then it hardened again into a strict look of jealous pride. „I told him not ter send any gifts. I can very well provide for meself."

„I am sure he did not mean to question your autonomy", he hurried to say, „just to treat you to a little reading matter if you should have leisure enough to enjoy it."

Her eyes softened again, her lips relaxed into a little smile. „Dear, foolish Uncle John. So he made you carry a valise full o' books across the Channel? I shall tell him he must not be so silly in my next letter." She cast a quick look over her shoulder. „I'll ask Madame ter excuse me a li`le earlier terday. Might I trouble ye ter drop them books at my address?"

„I would be happy to take you", he replied courteously. He could enquire for her dress anytime at the Sûreté, but it could not be a mistake to have a quick look at the inside of her lodgings. His instinct told him that in his current investigation, Frances was playing a decisive role, although he had not yet made sure of its nature. He did not like it.

He had not taken Watson into his confidence when he had seen him on his quick visit to the City. There was no sense in that - full of paternal partiality, he would volubly have defended his warden against the slightest insinuation of a possible entanglement with the case. On the whole, his stay in England seemed fairly fatuous in hindsight.

He had effected nothing, save making up leeways as regards the dinner invitation to his best friend, and a confirmation of Mrs. Hudson's still rather reliable memory. According to the Sussex land registry office, Mr. Tom Rhys-Folmec had tenanted the neglected house for almost as long as he lived on the Downs himself. Also, he had walked toward the cemetery at dusk, to linger by the grave of his wife uselessly for the quarter of an hour. A waste of time.

No, no, the key to the mystery was here in Paris after all, was right there beneath that stylish lingerie hat. Fanny talked to Madame Martinez in rapid French while putting on her gloves. While he could not assert a special familiarity with the fashion of the day, he still admired her unerring sense of what became her rather small frame, and her capability to defray the costs from an undoubtedly small purse.

They boarded the hired vehicle waiting in the street; and Fanny gave the driver directions toward her place. It was on the outskirts of the City, and rather a long drive, but she did not chose to shorten it by means of conversation. SNAP! Went the buckles of the valise, and she avidly browsed its contents, issuing small cries of pleasure now and then. He glanced over her shoulder, and, beholding the romanticist and gothic literature his friend had chosen, smiled a little to himself. Watson was incorrigible.

When the driver drew up in front of a building whose facade bespoke neglect caused by limited means, Fanny raised her head bemusedly. „Are we there awready? I had better put everything back, then." Rearranging the contents of the valise and fastening the buckles, she set out to drag it out of the cab door herself, but he forestalled her.

„May I? It's too heavy for you."

He sensed her wince from his helping hand, unsure whether to accept his further assistance or to enforce her claim to independency.

„Thank you", she said, hesitatingly. „This way, please."

Her key unlocked the door into a staircase which, once magnificent with a broad, spiraling flight of steps, had fallen into decay some time hence. Dirt accumulated in the deep fissures in the stone of the steps, and the light bulbs in the wall sconces were mostly broken. In one place, water dripped down the wall.

„It's all the way up the apples", she apologetically called over her shoulder, and the sound of the familiar idiom seemed to twist his stomach. „Right beneath the roof."

He would seem a very old man, if she took the precaution to warn him of the fatigues. He chuckled ironically, and with light, quick steps ascended the spiral, the heavy valise firmly in hand. She arrived a full minute later to insert her key into the keyhole. At least so far he could rely on his abilities, he thought and quirked a sardonic eyebrow.

She flung open the door, and an actual smile invited him to step in. „Right over here, Mr. `olmes. Thanks e'er so much."

Frances flat, formerly the garret, he mused, was small, but snug and charmingly furnished. It possessed a tiny kitchen with herbs in pots on the outside sill. She at once busied herself over there, clattering with kettle and crockery. As soon as her hands were free, she turned around and reached up to remove her hatpin and hat.

„I am makin' tea, Mr. `olmes. Would ya like…."

He interrupted his rapid survey of the place, and pretended looking for the best spot to set down the valise. „Yes, thank you, Frances."

She passed him by to lay down her broad hat on the bed beneath the pitch of the roof. It made him feel excessively uncomfortable to have her so close by, her red hair, released of the hat, tumbling down far enough to touch the duvet. Straightening herself, she pushed it on one side, and that even increased the likeness to her late relative, who invariably had worn her hair like this.

To make sure he did no stupid thing, he folded his hands behind his back and nodded his chin at the window above the bed. „That shutter seems to be jammed", he observed neutrally, while Frances, back at the kitchenette, spooned tea out of one of the large glasses that stood in a row on the counter. For the purpose, she used some quaint implement made from bamboo.

„I know. It is very irksome, especially as the window points East, and the light wakes me early every morning. I always wanna have it fixed, and then I forget", she explained lightly.

During the time that it took her to prepare the tea, Holmes took off his frock and shoes, and, stepping on a low footstool, examined the problem. It looked as though a spring had broken in the rewinder, because the belt was hanging from it loosely. However, without the required tools, he could not see a way to fix it.

His thoughts were pleasantly interrupted by Fanny serving tea and madeleines. „Black tea is right, innit, Mr. `olmes?" She enquired solicitously. „I got this, and chamomile, and Madame Zhao's awful green tea."

He slowly stepped down from the stool. „Much as I would have enjoyed Madame Zhao's awful green tea, this will be perfectly good, thank you Frances. However -„ he reached for his overcoat and inserted his hand into the lining, „ - when I said I had presents for you, I was speaking in the plural. This is a small something for you by my Sussex neighbour, Miss Mildred. I don`t know -„

He hesitated. Fanny and Mildred had been inseparable for one long summer when they were both children, but that was a long time in the past. Maybe she had forgotten.

But her eyes, wide open in wonder and delight, told him she had not. „Oh, yes! Mildred!" Her smile was broad when she accepted the small parcel. Full of pleasurable anticipation, she unwrapped it carefully. Out came a booklet, whose every page had been pasted with small dry flowers - bearbind, archangel, periwinkle, lady's finger. The blossoms of the Downs.

Fanny stood quite still as she looked down on the pages of the tiny book. Her chest heaved, and her head was inclined so much that her face could hardly be seen through the curtain of her flaming hair. With an inhalation that betrayed an effort, she suddenly raised it again and gave a tight smile. „Dear Mildred. `ow kind to think of me. You must give `er me best on your return `ome, Mr. `olmes."

With which words she turned abruptly away, and set to pouring the tea in a cumbersome fashion. She had a small table for the tea things, but only one chair to sit at it, so that she invited him to take a seat there, and lowered herself onto the edge of her bed. He found her looking forlorn….between the two mannequins that flanked the bed, she seemed like a girl too old to play with dolls, and very sad about it. She sipped at her tea, and was silent.

„I know what grudge you bear me", he brusquely said. „I know and understand it well. Let there be no misunderstanding between us, Frances. I accept your opinion of me, yes, I even find it justified. But it must, and shall not, interfere with the way we are conducting this investigation. Do you agree?"

He said _we_ with an idea that it might make her feel more involved, more prepared to divulge whatever knowledge she harboured. The book she had pinched at the flat of Madame Zhao was lying open on her bedside table: _La vie de St. Lazare_.

The girl lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. Her eyes were immeasurably sad. „Do you?" She asked quietly. „ _Can_ you understand?"

Her mournfulness was more than he has bargained for. All he tried to attain was a level of impersonality, where one might meet and cooperate without any resentments and secret animosities. But her question appeared to ask for something more. He would have to atone, and he knew he owed her atonement.

„Yes, Frances. I am responsible for the death of your beloved aunt as I am for that of her child, and if you must hate me for it, then do. I myself -„

He looked away quickly, then back at her face, and gave her a spasmodic smile. „I have detested and abhorred myself for a long time. I have done penance in many ways - you can believe me if I say so. If you can't forgive, I have no right to ask it. The only thing I ask is that you will not hinder my proceedings in this case by any active or passive means. It is not just me you are thus capable of helping: Always remember that your friend's life is more valuable than your revenge on me. We have the best chance of finding her if we unite our efforts, and find her we must, soon."

She said nothing, but continued looking sad and a little disappointed. He grew impatient. For heaven's sake, what did she expect of him? Did she want him to drop on his knees and ask her pardon?

„Do you understand?" He insisted.

She cast down her eyes to the hands she had clasped in her lap. „Yes, Mr. `olmes."

„You will not work against me, then?"

Large, honest grey eyes opened at him, eyes whose duplicity angered him. "Of course not, Mr. `olmes. I never considered doing such a thing."

He felt his stare become hard. „You will neither hinder my proceedings by refusing your cooperation, withholding information or even direct action?"

That made her falter. „Why, what do you mean?"

„That I want your unrestricted trust and assistance - even if it seems much to ask in such a constellation as the one we find ourselves in."

„You have that, Mr. `olmes", she acquiesced.

It was hopeless. He was not making any progress with her. For a moment he considered if he had been mistaken…but if she did not keep a secret, why smuggle that book out of the flat under his very eyes? There was something, something she would not tell.

He probably deserved no better.

Holmes thanked her for the tea, and took his leave. On his way back to the hotel, he wondered what it might be that she withheld, and why she did it. He had felt no positive hatred directed at him, not any more. She would not have allowed him into her flat if she feared or hated him.

Could it be that Frances did not recognize the importance of whatever morsel of information had come into her possession?

 **Hi ppl!**

 **Where are you all? Come, come back from the lake or seaside and read diligently! The summer is very beautiful, but fanfiction also is a fun part of life. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and have a lovely residual August!**

 **Oh and BTW sorry for any typos that may have occurred here and there. My Mac is quite new and his autocorrection and I still have not agreed as to who shall have supremacy over the spelling. So we fight.**

 **All the Best, Mrs. F**


	10. Chapter 10

**Blind Reparation**

 _"Never can true reconcilement grow/ Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep"_

 _Paradise Lost_

She felt that the end was near when he sought her out in her cell. Too weak to be made to rise from her pallet, it was clear that life was slowly slipping through her fingers. This was his last attempt to catch her while she was still there.

He stood on the far end of her rude bedstead. The upper half of his body was lost in shadows, she realized, whenever she could muster the energy to lift the lids of her eyes. Thin, spidery legs in crisply ironed trousers were the only visible part of him, legs that ended in polished patent leather shoes. His cold sneer woke her to presence of mind. She was not gone, not yet.

„Where did you hide the King's Orb?"

He was never put out by her silence. With a tenacity that seemed inexhaustible, her repeated the same questions, for hours on end if need be. Clearly he had had the training of a gentleman, and his accent was upper class. He was not tempted into screaming or using bad language. He was just there, patient, horrible.

His presence alone meant torture.

„Who are your confederates?"

Fairly soon, his precisely uttered words seemed slurred again, the lids sank back over her eyes, infinitely heavy. The burning in her stomach had ceased a long time ago. She could feel no more, suffer no more, crave no more, except for a release into sleep. This refuge, so difficult to enter for her in days gone by, appeared more and more attainable. She drifted into a state of semi-consciousness, a state imperfect, but already pleasurable. They were losing hold of her. They would have to let her go….

Somewhere in the last flares of her remaining capacities, she heard the high, cold voice call for water, and command that she be fed.

oooOOOooo

I felt strange after his departure.

Yes, I had resented, had even hated him these many years. But if I was quite honest with myself, his avowal of responsibility for what had happened astounded me. Was it quite fair that he took the blame in its entirety? Strangely, I felt shaken in my assumption of his guilt. And an assumption it was, not a conviction. It was wrong of him to think that I laid down all the blame at his door. Incredible as it seemed, he did not quite understand the nature of my anger, my smoldering, impotent rage. He did not feel at all that he had forsaken me when I was vulnerable.

Aunt Cathy, aunt Cathy was all he ever thought about. Not even the death of their son engaged his thoughts so much as her sudden, tragic demise did. Of that, I felt confident.

Oh, but what was the use of crying over spilt milk? Mr. Holmes was perfectly right. If we meant to look toward future interests, the best we could do was try and be a team. That was the best chance Madame Zhao had, if she actually was in danger as Holmes had intimated. And in danger she had to be, or I would have heard from her before this.

I washed my tea things, and relapsed onto my bed, biting my nails. A quick glance at the clock told me it was no good to return to the boutique - we would be closing shop soon, anyway. I could just as well sit here, and use the time to ponder - once again - what Madame had said on the last occasion I had seen her.

I was not to talk to the police. Very well, I would not involve them. Wherever Holmes was, they would be superfluous anyway. What else? There was such a yawning gap in my understanding of any of this that it seemed impossible to get hold of a clue. The only tangible thing was the damaged treasure, the King's Orb, an artifact that had started this whole series of miserable events.

If it could only be found, maybe it would explain everything. Or it might, at least, contain an indication as to whither Madame had disappeared so suddenly. But Madame's flat had been searched several times now, and I had no knowledge of her movements in the days prior to her disappearance. I knew three things only. She went out little due to her handicap. She was smart. And she had been frightened.

oooOOOooo

There was a little billet the valet brought up to his suite the next morning. It was from Frances, and

comprised all the places that to her knowledge were frequented regularly by Madame Zhao.

He tried to put his rumpled clothes ands thoughts into order while he scanned the short list. Among several obvious addresses related to her occupation as a restorer, there was a buddhist house of worship on the outskirts of the city, a store that specialized in tea and other East Asian goods, Madame Martinez' boutique and a favourite café in Montmartre.

Holmes raised his hand to his chin as he reflected on this development. So, Frances cooperated, at least a little. That was something gained. Her attachment to the vanished woman had to be strong if it could outweigh her dislike for him. For a flash, he even considered obtaining his niece's forgiveness if he succeeded in finding her- but no, don't think of it. It was evidently too much to ask.

Maybe, however, it would be useful to have Frances with him as he visited the indicated stations of Madame Zhao's everyday routine- a couple of words to her employer might render that feasible. There remained only the question of how to move her into compliance. It had always been a talent of his, the handling of women who might be useful, or so Watson had stated in his accounts. But having Frances tolerate him was maybe not enough. He might have to ingratiate himself, and he had an idea.

Scribbling a reply on the back of the note, he announced his call on the following day after Frances' working hours, and had the valet put it into the post.

oooOOOooo

To say I was surprised at Holmes' reaction to my note would be an understatement. I had to look twice before I was quite certain he had come to my door fully equipped with hacksaw, screwdriver, gimlet and grinding pencil.

„Hullo", I said tentatively.

„I have come about your blind", he stated, by way of explanation.

„Re'lly." I was angry about my faintheartedness, and wanted to laugh at the same time. „I say, that's very thoughtful. But d'ye know any fink at all `bout fixing stuff?"

He did not deign to reply, but instead crossed the room with his swift gait, and stepped onto the same footstool he had used the day before.

„We shall have to unhinge the belt reel first of all. Can you hold this, Fanny?"

I approached with hesitation, sensible of the fact that he had called me by my childhood name. I was long weaned from the sound of it - only my far away family ever used it, and Uncle John, of course. At the shop, I was strictly „Miss Morris" or „Francoise".

He pressed so many technical devices into my hands that I could hardly hold them at one time. „Let me cover my bed first, Mr. `olmes! It will be covered in splinters, otherwise."

I was allowed to perform this precaution, and lowered my burden to the floor to go and get a heavy wollen blanket which I usually reserved for winter months. Spreading it over the bed, I enquired: „ `ow is it possible ye sacrifice yer time for a trifle like that, Mr. `olmes? Don't think me ungrateful, on'y I should fink ye're busy lookin' fer clues?"

He looked down on me from his elevated position, and took a screw from where it was stuck between his lips. „I shall be, Fanny, don't be alarmed. But this damaged shutters are, as you said, abridging your sleep, and I can't allow for my colleague to be tired on the chase."

„Yer - colleague, Mr. `olmes?"

„Yes, indeed." He inserted the screwdriver into another screw and started to turn it emphatically. „I work better with a partner, and you, knowing the victim, are the obvious choice. I want you to come along to all the places you named in your list, and help me find out how Madame Zhao spent the last days before her disappearance. There must be an indication as to where she went, if she went anywhere at all, and what she did. It is the only thinkable method that remains to us, after everything else failed. We must reconstruct her movements, Frances. _Will_ you help me?" He asked brusquely, redirecting his gaze from the occupation of his hands to me.

I did not know what to say. Part of me agreed with everything he said - but another part was awfully afraid. I could not commit a breach of promise to Madame. I could not.

„But I will `ave precious li`le time to do it, you know", I finally said. „My employer is not o`the kind that allows spontaneous holidays."

He waved me away. „That will be taken care of, rest assured. But are you prepared to assist in this enterprise - to assist me?"

I opened my mouth, and shut it, and suddenly knew less than ever how to reply. Holmes was a stately man, but all at once he looked a young boy, up there on the stool, and without the frock which usually added to the impression he made by concealing his leanness. I felt something ache deep inside - he had repented, hadn't he? And his sufferings, surely, had been adequate to his crime?

He looked lost, at the end of his tether. It was only logical that he appealed to me for help. Who else could he turn to? As he said, all other methods had brought no results. It was my duty to help, if it could save my friend. It simply had to be in her interest that I acted when re-opening my mouth…so help me god.

„Awright, Mr. `olmes", I said slowly. „I will come wiv ye. Where shall we go first?"

oooOOOooo

My commitment worried me, but once uttered, it seemed too late to take it back. After all, what could be wrong about it? I was able to assist, and yet to keep silence about some little points, was I not? So I helped Holmes in silence to install a new shutter belt, before we set to work.

It had grown rather late now. Darkness was falling, and wrapping the street in gray, translucent matter. But we still had an agreeable temperature, and in my casaque, I felt prepared for tonight. Holmes' suggestion was that we drive to the temple Madame used to attend, because they were likely to hold some sort of evening service. He possessed an amount of knowledge on the topic that rather amazed me, although he claimed his acquaintance was closer with the Indian than with the Chinese variety of Buddhism.

He gave me quite a lecture during our ride in the cab. His intention was that we should pose as seekers of faith, whose interest in the doctrine had only lately been inspired. „Always remember", he instructed me, „you wish to tread the eighth-fold path of Buddha. The path which leads away from pain and craving, and towards felicity. You seek to attain a state of enlightenment and to escape eternal rebirth. For this, you are prepared to acknowledge the four noble Truths and to adopt a disciplined mode of life including study, meditation and renunciation. Is that clears to you?"

„Yes, Mr. ´olmes", I replied with, I am afraid, a somewhat bitter smile. As though I had ever led anything but a life of renunciation! I might be able to conceal it from my loved ones, too far away from here to see for themselves, but in my heart of hearts I knew I had only one thing in my life, and that was work. I was unlike the other girls at the shop, and the pleasures of friendship or even romance were not for me. Or, if that sounded better in the ears of a Buddhist, I adhered to a disciplined mode of life.

„We are in the 13th arrondissement", Holmes, who had been counting streets and turnings under his breath, suddenly said. „It can't be far now. Are you ready, Frances?"

„I guess so", I replied with a weak smile. „There ain't nothing much they can do to us but kick us outta th'plaice, is there?"

„I agree. But keep in mind what I told you. And do not give your actual name, just in case."

„Awright!" I peered out of the cab window. We had come to a halt in front of a dark, run-down row of houses. From what I was used to in Madame's cheery garments ans colorful personal things, I would have expected a place of exotic glamour, not these dreary, dismal surroundings.

We got out, and had a quick look around. As the cab had pulled off and the clatter of hooves was fading out in the distance, Holmes linked arms with me. „Come along", he muttered, and led me into a dark thoroughfare that served as a side entrance to one of the decrepit houses. A glance at the signet which had been affixed discreetly to the gate post, told me we were at the right address.

„Temple Drikung Kagyu, 288 Rue des Pyrénées", it read in brandished gold letters. Underneath, there was a golden circle, enclosing characters unknown to me.

A faint glow of light persuaded us to venture deeper into the dark alley. Its source proved to be a large, burning torch attached to the wall next to rather a low doorway, which had been adorned with all kinds of gaudy tinsel. For no sensible reason, I felt a little relieved. The things seemed to bring me closer to Madame, and the gloomy neighborhood looked more trustworthy for it.

„Bonsoir", a husky voice suddenly said next to my ear. A man, not much taller than me and clad in red, had stepped out of the door with his arms crossed, so that his hands disappeared within the sleeves of his garb. „Et qui êtes-vous, mes amis?"

He scrutinized us from eyes embedded in a brown, crinkly face, eyes which could not disown their Asian origins. His gaze was calm, steady, questioning, but not unfriendly.

„We are seekers of the faith", Holmes explained in French. „My name is Danton, Olivier Danton. And this is my friend, Mademoiselle Barthes. We had hoped to gain access to your congregation and learn more about the sacred doctrine."

There was a moment's pause, during which we were eyed closely. Then, in the same, unhurried tone, the man spoke: „How know you of this temple?"

I cast down my eyes nervously, while Holmes replied for both of us. „An old acquaintance in the city mentioned it to us. Madame Ling Zhao. Do you know her?"

Another pause. The man's face was stony when he spoke again. „Ling Zhao, yes indeed. She does not come here anymore."


	11. Chapter 11

**On the cold trail**

 _„_ _I have received, to answer thy desire/ of knowledge within bounds/ beyond abstain to ask.„_

 _Paradise Lost_

My discomfort with the man's monosyllabic calm and his searching eyes grew steadily. I would have liked to take refuge in words, in the most eloquent, though possibly the most abstruse explanations - but I had given Holmes my word I would remain quiet and react only to his prompts. He seemed content to cock an eyebrow, smile, and wait an unnerving stretch of time for the man to reply. He, however, did not oblige, but stood silently with his hands in his sleeves, a circumstance that was apt to heighten my nervous excitement.

„ _Comment_? How do you mean, she does not come here anymore? She expressly suggested for us to come here if we wanted to learn more about the holy practices!"

Holmes maintained a friendly, though slightly bewildered facade. We were not supposed to know about her disappearance, since her name had been kept out of the newspapers.

The oriental eyed us passively. „She doesn't come here anymore", he repeated with a tone of finality.

„I see…" Holmes appeared to falter. „Even so…We were told that visitors would be allowed into the temple for evening services. Is that not so?"

„Guests are allowed tonight. But I must ask that strangers do not bring weapons of any sort into this sphere of peace."

His eyes continued to rest on us, and I suddenly wonderer whether Holmes was hiding fire arms somewhere on his person. He had been known to do so if the situation required it - only I had no way of knowing how to assess our situation. It might well be a peaceful cult as the guardian of the door claimed, or it might not, and we were walking straight into a trap with no means of protection.

While these thoughts flickered up in my mind, Holmes reverted his lapels to show he was unarmed, and was allowed to pass, but when I wanted to follow suit, the guardian stopped me. Inclining his head gravely toward my casaque, he seemed to demand that I take it off - and I obeyed, confused by the suspicion that was directed at me, a woman! But somehow, the taciturn sentry demanded my respect, and meekly, I even turned the cape inside out to prove myself clean.

The man made a slight bow, and I was allowed to follow Holmes through the tinsel-draped entrance door into a correspondingly low and narrow corridor. It was illuminated by torches on the walls, similar to the one we had seen outside. The ceiling was so low Holmes almost had to duck his head, and it was impossible to walk side by side. I am a victim to claustrophobia, though in a mild form, and in the dim light, the walls seemed to draw in ever more closely, and the apprehension of walking into a trap impressed itself more deeply on me.

However, the hall we entered at the end of the corridor presented a delightful change. We stood at the doorway of a salon of kinds with bright carpets and wall hangings, heavily perfumed and filled by the unobtrusive sound of eastern musical instruments. People clad in cheerful colors were mingling in the room, sitting on sofas and ottomans and talking pleasantly to each other.

The vast majority bore east and south asian traits, though there was a sprinkling of European attendants as well. Many of them, men and women, had had their heads clean shaven, others looked perfectly ordinary, wearing neutral hairstyles and clothing. In fact, if it hadn't been for the many asiatic faces, we might as well have walked in on the tea party of some eccentric society lady with a craze of the Far East. There was even a kind of buffet with refreshments for the guests.

Without turning my head, I gingerly tugged at Holmes' sleeve. „Did ye bring yer revolver?" I murmured from the corner of my mouth.

„Yes, I have."

I inhaled deeply and smiled at a couple of ladies who were passing by. „And do you fink you will need it?"

„You never know", he replied noncommittally. „You talk to the people. I will take a look around."

And without further explication, he was gone.

I slowly circulated around the room, taking everything in, from the bald-headed men in orange tunics (priests of a kind?) to the large brass tripod in which incense seemed to be burned. It was obvious that the gathering was of a social nature, and that the actual service had not yet begun.

For my first victim I chose an elderly lady whose broken French seemed to indicate she had nor spent her whole life here. Thus similarly situated in life, she seemed a promising source who might well be acquainted with Madame Zhao. I engaged in innocuous conversation with her, dropping the name once or twice, but it seemed to mean nothing to her. When I mentioned Madame for the third time, she asked whether there was a familial connection with the Zhao's in Vincennes.

„No, no, I don't think so", I returned impatiently. „To my knowledge, Madame Zhao does not `ave any relatives in France."

„Isn't she from Canton originally?" A young man interposed, standing beside my conversation partner in a familiar way that indicated they were mother and son. How stupid of me. I had forgotten that Madame preferred the company of the young to that of her own age group.

„Yes, I believe so!" I said, trying not to sound too eager.

„Pierre Huang, pleased to meet you", the young man introduced himself politely. I indistinctly mumbled my bogus name, keen to return to the topic of interest as soon as possible. But I hadn't reckoned on the duet that commenced between Mrs. Huang and Huang junior.

„Certainly you know her, mother! Can't you remember? She was the lady who invited you to tea several times…"

The elderly lady resolutely shook her head. „No, you mistake, son. Bù renshi Zhao nüshi. Renshi jin Bali Vincennes de Zhao mén… You stubborn son! You question mother's memory!"

Seriously piqued, she shook of young Huang's appeasing arm and rushed off to talk to somebody more pleasant. Her son gave me an apologetic smile.

„Mother tends to forget things when it suits her…and knowing Madame Zhao, well, you must know that she can be a little - shall we say, possessive?"

I felt a surge of indignation for Madame's sake - how dare the sapling talk about her hospitality and her good intentions in that manner? Still, it would not be wise to flare up now and reprimand him, who might possibly have precious information. Besides, I knew he was right about her.

Thus, I smiled guiltily and agreed with him. „You must know her very well indeed."

„Oh, only cursorily - like everybody knows everybody a little in the community. We talked once or twice."

„Oh yes? What about?" I tried to give myself an air of being a little bored, and just chatting with the youth out of politeness.

„This and that, you know…the difficulties of getting quality tea and foodstuffs from home…she gave mother the address of a shop in Montmartre that she frequents. And you? How have you come to know each other?"

„Well we…live in the same house", I lied spontaneously, not wanting to get too close to the truth. „But I don't see her much lately, she seems to have retired a bit. She hasn't been here in a while, has she?"

„No - now that you mention it…" He creased his forehead. „She used to come regularly, but I don't think I have seen her these…two weeks…oh, look who's there! Will you excuse me?" He said politely, spotting somebody across my shoulder.

I dismissed him in disappointment, wondering what I had hoped to glean from the conversation. The religious group did not seem menacing or even mysterious any more, hardly more exciting than an ordinary Sunday service in church. There was nothing to be learned here. And where the deuce was Holmes?

Discreetly, I provided myself with directions to the privy from a solitary lady, and slipped out through the door she had indicated. This side of the salon, the building had been operated with more respect to the requirements of free movement; I stood on a polished marble floor that was lost in darkness halfway between me and the staircase that led downstairs to the privy.

I was pondering whether, lacking better plans, I should really go down there, when the handle of a broad door opposite to me was pressed down, and one wing was cautiously opened. Involuntarily, I took a step backwards - but it was only Holmes who slipped out of the room, silent as a shadow.

„What are you doing `ere?" I whispered insistently.

„Just surveying", he whispered back. „There's a large room back there equipped for cult practices, but I could find nothing suspicious. Did you learn anything of interest?"

I shook my head. „Mr. `olmes, we shouldn't be here. I made sure Madame wasn't seen here since her disappearance. We're wasting time."

He shrugged his shoulders. „We can still talk to people. It couldn't hurt, could it?"

„No", I conceded grudgingly, and opened the door into the salon.

It was an unfortunate coincidence that the very moment Holmes and I re-joined the congregation, the guardian of the main entrance appeared in the mouth of the passage we had come earlier, exactly opposite to us. He saw us, and though his stoic features remained unchanged, I instinctively felt he had made a decision. My instinct was proven correct when a moment later, he turned around and disappeared in the passage whither he had come.

„Mr. `olmes!" I hissed.

„Yes, I know."

„I think he is going to fetch the police!"

My stomach turned at the thought. Holmes, however, seemed amused by the idea.

„Is he indeed? Well, the setting is unusual, but I would be charmed to meet the gentlemen of the Sûrété again so soon!"

„Let us go", I pleaded, and he looked down at me in surprise.

It took him a moment to reply. „Well, if you want to! We can use the exit via the backyard if you should prefer it to the front door."

„That sounds reasonable." I smiled weakly, and made to sneak out through the door again. Holmes followed closely, but in the gloom of the hallway, I could not distinguish the expression of his face.

oooOOOooo

„Not a very successful excursion, that", I remarked, genuinely disappointed, as we stumbled though the darkness of the run-down district. We had been obliged to climb a wall in the cult house's backyard, and although I had had the benefit of Holmes' helping hand, my dress had been torn a little on the top spikes.

„You had hoped for better? That marks you as still inexperienced in the criminal investigation", he observed airily. „There will always be dead ends and thoroughly unprofitable detours, or at least, one may think so at the time. Occasionally, however, one is able to tie up all the loose ends at the termination of a case. There!"

He stopped abruptly and raised his hands to form a funnel before his mouth. „Cab! Eh, _cocher_!" His voice slashed through the night so loud and harsh that it was not difficult for me to imagine he had spent some time among cabbies and learned their mannerisms. But my relief was intense when the vehicle turned and approached. I was cold, and my feet were tired.

„ _Au centre ville_!", he commanded, handing me inside.

We set in motion, and I sighed involuntarily. „There may be somefink in what you say. Still, I feel we have learned nothing…only that she hasn't been there in two weeks, an' that she gave this lady the address of the delicatessen…the one we already knew she liked."

„And we will go there tomorrow, first thing when you are free in the afternoon", he decided. „Afterwards, we can have a look at this café you put down on your list. But speaking of delicatessen - „ and he gave me shrewd side glance, „ - you are fairly hungry, are you not?"

„Ye can read me mind!" I cried. „It must ´ave been hours since I `ave eaten. I was about to have supper when you knocked on my door!"

„Then it must be stale now", he stated. „We shall dine at the hotel. Even compared to Mrs. Hudson's cuisine, their fare is rather decent."

I laughed out loud. „What an idea, Mr. ´olmes!"

He smiled lightly. „I can see no flaw in my proposition?"

„Then I will enlighten you. First, I am not dressed appropriately for dinner at the Meurice. Second, I don't even own a dress that would come near to appropriate for dinner at the Meurice. And third, there is a large tear in the dress that you want to take me to dinner in!"

He waved me away, as if it were all beside the question. „My rooms were booked by the Home Secretary's clerk, and my breakfast company consisted of the Président de la Républic. Surely, it would be a pettifogging management that could object to a little tear in a dress under the circumstances. Besides -„ and he reached down one of his trouser legs, „I am afraid I am a little worse for wear myself."

„That's different", I insisted, „you are a guest there."

„And you a guest's guest."

„At least let me stop at home to change quickly!" I pleaded, but he was adamant.

„That is not to be considered, we are starving as it is, and it takes women amazing lengths of time to change quickly! And if the lady in question makes a living out of fashion, I should expect the process to be even more long-winded. Any what is more, we are there already."

The cab halted, and as he stepped out to pay the driver, I gathered all my coolness and dignity to sustain me under the scrutiny of fastidious eyes. Alighting to the splendiferous facade of the noble house, I straightened my spine and squared my shoulders, and treated the footmen to no glance as I entered on Holmes' arm. Inwardly, I naturally cursed my choice of the plain, striped cotton dress. But how could I have foreseen what the day would bring?

It was worse in the marble vestibule, where I caught the eye of the very same staff members who had politely turned me away some days earlier, when I had enquired after Holmes. But a light, reassuring pressure on my forearm gave me confidence, and my the time we went into the restaurant, I did not care very much about wry looks any more. I was too busy looking at everything myself!

 **Hello friends, I begin to like Fanny a little better and hope you feel the same. She is just a girl hiding her vulnerability beneath a mail suit of animosity. Hopefully, she and Holmes will advance on the road to reconciliation. What with me thinking just as far ahead as the next chapter, I could not even tell!**

 **All the Best, Mrs. F**


	12. Chapter 12

**The Torments of Tantalus**

 _„_ _To me, who with eternal famine pine/ Alike is Hell, or Paradise, or Heaven."_

Paradise Lost

The restaurant of Le Meurice would have been sufficient to stun a more sophisticated girl than I was - though I had spent my young girlhood in a respectable bourgeois household, I had never been what you would call spoilt for luxury. Therefore, my jaw must have dropped unattractively as I crossed the threshold into the large, quadrangular room with the marble painted floor and ceiling, brightly lit by several crystal chandeliers.

High mirrors mimicked windows with their ornamental partitions, but instead of showing views of the street or adjoining rooms, they just reflected the stiff-backed, cream colored chairs that had been arranged around the small, round tables, and the people who sat in them, eating and conversing in mannerly low tones. In a bit of a stupor, I registered a waiter drawing close, who, after Holmes had directed word at him, lead us to a vacant table beside the marble fireplace. I allowed him to put a chair out for me, and, sitting down, was glad for the less presentable portion of my wardrobe to become invisible beneath the table.

My companion, of course, knew none of the scrupled that vexed me. Maybe it was the assurance given to him by the mere fact of being a man, a state that necessitated less attention to outward appearance and modesty than womanhood. Or possibly, I mused, it was the life that lay behind him - a cornucopia of experience which instilled nonchalance and a disregard for superficialities into a man who might well rely on his authority and his standing in the world. On the other hand, it was also plausible that his singular personality, notoriously averse to all social strictures, ignored or even secretly enjoyed an obvious breach of the etiquette.

I scrutinized him sharply as he perused the wine list, apparently oblivious to the occasional discreet glances that strayed toward us. Maybe he really was distracted for the moment by his appetite. Then again, with a name like his, I remembered, he was probably used to curiosity. My fingers nervously drummed the table top.

„What is it, Frances?" He lowered the menu and narrowed his eyes at me. „Is the choice of wines not to your liking?"

I gave him a wry look. „Ye knows very well I didn't look at it yet. Don't ye realize everybody is secretly staring at us? I told ye they would."

He put down the menu and folded his fingers with a sigh so patient it sounded outright impatient. „This is your next lesson, Frances. Act the part. You did well earlier at the Buddhist temple. However, even if exterior circumstances are at odds with the person you wish to embody, you must persevere and make yourself credible. Do you understand?"

„But I ain't impersonating anyone at present, Mr. `olmes!" I replied with an embarrassed laugh. „I am ´ere just as meself…Frances Morris, a seamstress."

„And do people know that?" He arched an eyebrow, including the entire room with a small jerk of the head. „Is there any reason you should not be a duchess or a contessa, for all they know about you? Why should you not be an eminent person incognito or harried by unfortunate circumstances? Maybe you just had a narrow escape from cold-blooded abductors, or were released from a hiding-place. In my experience, there are many thinkable scenarios that would cover the situation."

I lowered my eyes. „I could ´ardly pass for a duchess, Mr. ´ olmes."

„Well, I didn't tell you to _claim_ being somebody." He extracted a cigarette from his case and lit it with care. „I told you to _seem_ being somebody. The difference, in its effect on the surroundings, is marginal. _Garcon, veuillez apporter le Château de Cheval Blanc, s'il vous plaît._ "

He leaned back as far as the stiff-backed chair would allow, and puffed on his cigarette, his eyes still on me. Unvoluntarily, I sat straighter, lifting my chin, allowing my arms, which had been cramped to my sides, more space as they eased down on the armrest. He smiled, forbearing any comment on the change.

„And have you had time", he enquired when the waiter returned and the wine was poured out for us, „to have a look at the books your Uncle John told me to bring you?"

„Not yet, I'm afeared", I returned, slightly dazzled by the first taste of the beverage. I had never tried anything so delicious in my life!

„But you do read a lot, don't you?" He asked with a quick-shot glance from beneath his arched brow. „I think I saw a book on your bed-side table already."

I strove mightily against a flush that threatened to spread on my face. Hopefully, he would attribute it to the wine I had drunk on an empty stomach. „That…yes, Madame gave it to me", I muttered, trying to stick to the truth at least in part. „Like so many other things."

„A religious topic, I believe", he continued lightly, and I was glad his gaze was wandering though the room, rather than focussing me. „You said her family was christian?"

„That's right. E´ en so, Madame did not think of religions as mutually exclusive…many Buddhists don't. She went to church alright, though not as frequently as to the temple", I explained.

„I see. And this saint…..?"

„Lazare. Somehow related to health matters, I trust. Madame is allus concerned about health", I spluttered. „Not on´y ´er own…also other peoples`. She is a bit of a mother hen, ´specially as regards me. There will be advice all the time, whether you want it or not."

„Interesting." He exhaled, and remained silent until after we had made our order.

„So, what d'ye ´ope ten glean from tomorrow's call at the shop?" I cautiously enquired, when his taciturnity became too much for me. „D'ye fink we will learn something?"

He did not reply though, and pensively rolled his half-smoked cigarette between index and middle finger. „I wonder whether you ought not to tell the police about this book", he suddenly said.

My heart began to race, all of a sudden. No way. Not if I could help it! „Why?" I said hurriedly, and after realizing this may have sounded a little off, I asked: „Do you fink it important at all?"

His eyes were riveted on mine. „Don't you?" He slowly said.

I shook my head. „No, certainly not. ´ow could it be? It's jus' an old doorstopper. No interest in it."

„Still, she gave it to you…shortly before she disappeared."

I shook my head more emphatically. „No, no. that don't signify anyfink. I told ye she was fond o' giving gifts. Possibly she even wanted her get rid o' the dust trap."

Damn the wine! It had risen into my head already. Had I been sober, I would have put on a neater show. As it was, I could only hope he had not noticed my distress.

Starters arrived - scallops for him, duck liver for me - and I was glad for the diversion to take his mind off the topic. To steer even further away, I asked when he would be home in Sussex the next time.

At the mention of Sussex, he creased his brow. „Why do you ask?"

„It's jus'….I was very touched by Mildred's gift and I thought I would make her somefink - a little somefink, a hat maybe or a pair o' gloves. Would ye be so kind an' take it back for me?"

He replied in the positive, though his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. Never before had I had a dinner companion that paid so little attention to me; though amazingly he always managed to balance on the edge of impoliteness. I was not angry at him, just puzzled. Anyhow, an absent mind could scarcely aim suspicion at me, and I was content. Starters were followed by mains….sweetbread, langoustines and guinea fowl. I enjoyed everything, but the ravenous hunger Holmes had professed seemed to have deserted him. He just picked at the things, but never arose from his state of distractedness again till dessert. It was just possible he had forgotten everything around himself, as Uncle John had reported occasionally happened to him. He had forgotten I was there, surely.

Had it been like this with Aunt Cathy? Had he blanked her out, treated her as though she were air? Or had she been different, a being apart from others in his eyes? Oh, I could make no sense of the human heart. Relations between men and women were apt to mystify me and leave me bewildered. I knew only extremes - the violent strife between my natural parents, the drink, the thrashing, the miserable lies to neighbors and policemen. And on the other hand the kind, loving, respectful relationship of Uncle John and Aunt Mary, dissolved by illness and ultimately, death.

Somewhere in between, so I remembered from my childhood days, my Aunt Cathy's marriage had been. There had been bliss and love without question, but also spite, separation and yes, violence. I had never forgotten the day Holmes had come to our home to threaten Aunt Cathy in case she should go to Ireland with us. And yet, compared with what I had known at the time, their love had seemed perfection, a firm foundation to build a family on.

Goddamn, I had been happy! I had felt we were a family, Mr. Holmes, Aunt Cathy, Mrs. Hudson, little Sheridan and I. I had never been so happy again. Even Aunt Mary and Uncle John had not been able to instill this feeling of belonging in me, though hard they tried. And even after Aunt Cathy's death, we could have been…..we COULD have been!

I tried to bite back my tears as I thought that this whole wretched past with all its desperations, hopes and disappointments probably was the reason why I was not able to relax into a relationship with a man - why I had stopped trying, giving preference to unsociable seclusion. I just was not fit.

oooOOOooo

She came back to the quaint awareness that she had now, irrevocably, lost track of time. There was no method to establish how many hours, days or weeks had passed since the world had faded out, to the present moment and the man who held a receptacle of some sort to her lips.

Ling Zhao drank greedily; the instinct of the body had re-asserted itself and demanded that she take every measure to bring it back to its former strength. A vivid impression of salty flavors made itself felt next, she seemed to be sucking on a peace of salted bacon - she, who for thirty years had renounced red meats! But in her current state, it was like the allure of blood's scent to a wild beast, and she felt like she had never found a sensation more satisfactory than the taste of the salt.

All too soon, however, the godsend was withdrawn from her again. She protested with raw, primal sound that to her own, cultured ear sounded horribly alien. Although the thought of food eclipsed everything else, a spark of gratefulness for the absence of a mirror flashed through her mind. He had made her an animal! A crawling creature driven by impulse! And there it still lingered, though faint and hardly perceivable, the scent of salt, meat, food!

Ling Zhao could not take it anymore. She fell forward, onto her stomach, her face on the cold, naked stone. With wild sobs, she threw her arms around the calves of the patent leather man, begging him to give her nourishment before she flew into a spitting frenzy, and was pulled back by strong, merciless arms.

oooOOOooo

His mornings were not getting any better.

He could not even attribute it to debauchery - the Château Cheval Blanc had made for a cleaner drink than spring water, and was just as unlikely to provoke headache. Nor could he blame late hours. Frances, a diligent worker with a tight schedule, had insisted on retuning home early. And yet, he felt more exhausted than in the wake of other nights less moderately spent.

The truth was, he had tossed his head from left to right for the greater part of the past hours, frightful visions coursing his addled brain. It was something the girl had brought up, most probably unawares, that filled him with a vague, but persistent horror. It had been the early morning hours which had brought a more defined apprehension, a terrible suspicion.

When the hands of the bedside clock showed it was six o' clock and he could be sure the staff were awake, he got out of bed and covered two strips of paper with writing at the small lacquered escritoire. Pulling over a dressing gown, he rung the bell for the page, who appeared within the minute.

„Cable this text to my home address in England, please. And this, give to a runner to bring to M. Simon of the Metropolitan Police."

He gave the boy a tip and a quick nod, closed the door and flung himself down on his bed again, with a sense of being worn out by superhuman efforts. His present concern was hideously interspersed with thoughts of Frances, a girl he told himself again and again he knew barely anything about.

If only she did not look so much like Kitty! Her resemblance was a psychological trap, and he knew he was in danger of being caught in it. Familiar and comforting though her company felt, she remained a stranger and a conundrum. Still, how much easier could things have been if it were not for their earlier acquaintance! He had tried hard, by his standards, to take the edge off her resentment. He had forgiven her insults, had gone out of his way to be kind, had even taken her on to the chase. What else could he do to make the girl trust him?

She held on fast to her secret knowledge. His strategy of loosening her tongue with wine had availed but little. Also, she had shirked from the idea of having the police down at the Buddhist temple. During dinner, he had confronted her again with a suggestion to involve the police, and again, her reaction had been that of a deer caught in headlights. It was suggestive, if it was nothing else.

He swung his legs over the side of his bed, sitting up again and locking his hands behind his aching head. Curse the girl! If she stalled him much longer, he would have to shake the secret out of her mendacious little person!

 **Hi ppl!**

 **If Holmes and Fanny want to stand a chance rescuing Mme Zhao, they had better hurry up and be a team before it is too late….**

 **All the Best, Mrs. F.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Cornered**

 _„_ _Our knowing, as to highest wisdom seemed/ Deign to descend now lower, and relate/ What may no less perhaps avail us known."_

 _Paradise Lost_

„Winter felt closer than during the past week. I imagined a silvery white dusting in the air as we alighted from the Métro and trudged up the stairs. Of course I was mistaken, the air was just unclean and polluted with the traffic cars going by. But the cold was more persistently biting into my flesh than formerly, no longer tempered by the mellow October sun.

As per usual, his gait was quick, hasty even. I wondered whether I would be able to keep up, steeply as our way wound up the Montmartre. Poor Uncle John! How had _he_ managed? It must have been thanks to his army training that he had been able to follow Holmes round for so many years!

However, I took the lead as soon as we were among the small shops and boutiques, inside a maze of narrow cobble stone streets. It was not easy to find the address, even if you thought you knew your way. The streets seemed to capriciously turn at surprising points, and very easily people could find themselves in the very spot they had started from. But as soon as I spied the gaudy red lampions dangle from the ledge of the roof, I knew we had come to the right place.

It was the merest nook, wedged between two other houses, and would be overlooked if it were not for the far easterly decoration, and the small racks on which a curious assortment was displayed: chopsticks and china, paper fans, incense, tiny tea pots and the very kind of bamboo implement Madame had used to spoon her tea. Involuntarily, I stopped to finger the scoop, whilst Holmes did not let himself by diverted from his object. He marched straight into the cramped dark opening of a door.

Although I had once accompanied Madame hither, I had never stepped inside. For some reason, it had seemed indecent, and under a pretext of feeling faint, I had waited for her in the open air. I could not precisely lay my finger in it: But the outlandish presentation of the shop, the strange smell, and the interior, darkly removed from curious glances, had had on me an effect like a lion's den. I had been hesitant to venture inside, and even in the street looked up and down if there were somebody familiar who should detect me in front of what looked like an opium place, or worse.

Aunt Cathy would not have faltered, it suddenly occurred to me. She had been wont to socialize with doubtful people in doubtful places, without having misgivings about it. With me, it was different. Ever since I was a child, I had tried to escape that sort of environment, the seedy demi-monde I had been born into. The filth of my mother's household, the vagrant life Aunt Cathy had led with various artists were equally repulsive to me. I was a hard worker, respectable, a professional. I could not be seen in shady places. The cult house had been a different thing, as darkness and the outermost Parisian periphery had provided security from detection. What, however, would any of our customers think if she should happen to see me on her morning walk through Montmartre?

Then again, I thought of Madame, and a shame almost as compelling as nausea seized me. Were not my feelings an insult to her people, her culture? To be sure, the shop was selling first class products, or she would not have deigned to put her foot on the threshold. Was I not held back by a timid dread of the race she belonged to? Was I not a victim to the most narrow form of xenophobia? What would Holmes think of me, tarrying outside? Would he not think me extremely square?

All this rushed through my brain within seconds. And yet, my feet were in such a hurry to make good the time I had lingered; I almost stumbled inside the shop behind Holmes, and had to stop my fall against the counter. Luckily, Holmes had already addressed the ancient huckstress behind it, and took no notice.

His tones were the most casual, and he randomly enquired after this product and then another, and became quite friendly with the old woman. To fall in tune with his behaviour, I browsed the shelves; took out the wares and restored them after inspection. There were a number of curious things I had never even seen at Madame's flat, for example a venomously green paste in a jar, dried algae of all textures and colors, and a repellent, spongy white substance which, if my reckoning be correct, was intended as a substitute for meat.

I caught Holmes dropping the name of Madame Zhao, and perked up my ears.

„Oh yes! She comes regularly. She buys my best Ooolong tea always. I keep a stock for her and only a few other customers", the old crone croaked. „Strange though, last time she forgot about the tea and left without it. I would still have the package here, though of course those ruffians have utterly ruined it!"

„Those - ruffians?"

I could hear the tension in Holmes' words. Probably, he knew he would have to prod the old woman, but was afraid of overdoing it. Thus, he tried casual interest first, and really -

„Why, yes. She came…let me see….aye, it must have been a fortnight!" The woman exclaimed, obviously stunned by this achievement of her memory.

„And the ruffians….?"

„She bought Oolong, as per usual", continued the shop keeper, her mood visibly brightened. „An ounce she bought, as per usual!"

„Did she come alone?" His tones, heretofore subtly excited, had now returned to a patient calm.

„Quite alone! She came by cab, you know, and after she had paid I went to the storing room to get the tea. But as I came back, she had disappeared! And the cab still waiting there in the street, she must have gone away on foot. Such strange behaviour!" The old bat exclaimed.

Holmes inhaled sharply. „I believe you mentioned `ruffians`?" He insisted.

„Why yes! The moment I had realized she was gone, a pair of them stomped into the shop!"

„What did they want?" Holmes' patience was crumbling again. I could see it by the way his hands cramped around the edge of the counter, white at the knuckles.

„They asked me where she had gone…and I said to them: `Why, I don't know, just as I come back from the store, she has vanished from the place, and without her tea, too!"

„What happened then?"

„These ruffians tore it from my hands!" The shop keeper blustered. „They slit it open with a knife, and searched it, and then they left it in shreds on my counter. What they expected to find in it, I cannot imagine! I only wonder what the police thinks they are for, if such people can come in at light of day, and scare and old woman!"

„Indeed - indeed. But you said you kept this package of tea?"

„I have, in case she should come back and claim it. But she won't have much joy of it!" Exhibiting a flexibility I should not have credited her with, the old crone suddenly dived beneath her counter, and brought up what looked like a heap of tattered rags, poorly holding in a small pile of tea-leaves.

Holmes barely glanced at it, and on the whole seemed to have lost all interest in the conversation. He smiled spasmodically, and nodded at me.

„I completely forget. The lady would like to wash her hands. We wanted to ask whether you would be so kind and let her use your facilities?"

Surprised, I glanced down at my hands, who were as clean as could be expected after fingering half the wares in the shop. The old woman, still warmly glowing with the excitement of telling her story, nodded.

„Come this way, lady, please!"

And she showed me down a short corridor behind the shop, which ended at a stair beneath which a door probably indicated the privy. Another door seemed to lead into a sort of backyard. I smiled gratefully at the woman, and locked myself in the tiny lavatory.

oooOOOooo

„Do you think she went through the storage room?" He asked after we had bought this and that and had left the queer shop for good.

„Through the backyard, more likely", I returned. „If there is a gate or portal, of course. Madame is in not state ter climb walls like we did yesterday."

„I examined the package with my magnifying glass whilst you diverted the woman", he said, creasing his forehead. „As far as I can tell, there was nothing in it but tea, but I took a small sample and will test it for various poisons, precious metals and other suggestive substances."

„I'll wager ye'll find no fink", I sighed. „If it had any significance, probably those `ruffians` would of taken it away."

„I agree. Still, it is good to make sure."

„Watcha fink it all means, Mr. `olmes?" I asked, too puzzled to hazard a theory of my own.

„I _think_ ", he said, with a petulant emphasis on his th, „she was running away from somebody. These men, whoever they were, were evidently following her. She realized it, entered the shop, got rid of the old woman, and left the house on the rear side, thus escaping her pursuers."

„It seems plausible - she was pretty bright. On`y, what can they `ave wanted of `er? D'ye fink the old woman knows more than she told us?"

„I should doubt it. Frances, I think we can both fashion a motive for following your friend from what we know so far."

„You mean the Orb." I fell silent. So it was true - wasn't it? Madame had fallen victim to criminals - thieves. Most likely, they had killed her, and thrown her dead body into the canal. And she so alert, so frightened…!

„You mentioned a Café Madame patronized", Holmes broke into my train of thought. „Here in Montmartre, I believe. We might have a look at it, if you feel up to it…?"

I blinked. „Yes", I said, „Yes - yes. It is just around the corner from `ere. We can walk there."

And so we did, though I would have preferred to return home. A long day of sewing dust ruffles and stitching flowers on a camisole lay behind me. Also, any place would have been preferable to just that Café. What devil had ridden me to even mention it to Holmes?

But there we were. He solicitously held open the door for me, and thus left to me the choice of table. I had my pick, and, as soon as seated, shielded myself with the menu. Holmes ordered coffee, and had a look around.

„So!" He said and gave a tight smile. „Madame's favorite Café. Not an unnatural preference, given the close proximity to her flat."

„Aye. It is within walking distance. She would call the cabby for most other excursions."

„But she went to that shop in a cab." He put his index to his lips, and seemed to ponder that.

„Yes…but that makes another five minutes' walk."

„I scarcely think this is the reason for her choosing the cab", Holmes returned. „She must have noticed her followers soon after she left the house. She had a good eye - so she would, being an artist. An eye for detail. I wonder…Frances, did you ever come here with Madame?"

„Sometimes", I replied.

„And when was the last time?"

I cast down my eyes. „That would `ave been the day before she disappeared."

He nodded. The coffee arrived. Holmes took one cup and saucer from the waiter to set it before me, but accidentally spilled some on the back of my hand. I started, and met his eye. There was a brief pause.

„My mistake", he said softly. „I am so sorry."

I inhaled deeply, and very flustered returned to the business of adding sugar to my coffee - I, whom I detest sweetened coffee.

„What were we talking about?" Holmes mused. „Oh yes! Your last visit here together. What was she like that day? Nervous?"

I looked up from my coffee. „Mr. `olmes, I `ave told ye all that already at the Sûrété!"

„What did you talk about?" He urged.

„This an' that - she was `er usual self! We were `aving a hot drink, that's all."

„Sitting over there", Holmes observed, nodding at one of the tables in the window.

I was taken aback. „`ow on earth d'ye know?"

„You keep looking at it", he replied with a sudden lightness of tone. A little lower, so that only I could hear it, he added: „Also, it is the farthest from our table."

I did not know what to say, and resorted to monosyllabism.

oooOOOooo

He return to the Meurice if not in high spirits, then at least something very much akin to it. It was true Frances had not been any more forthcoming than ion former occasions, and still he felt he had made some headway. At least, she knew now she could not fool him, provided she was not herself a fool.

He stopped to enquire at the concierge's desk. Yes, there was a reply cable from England, and a note from the Sûrété as well. He took the envelopes, and opened them in the elevator. So, Mr. Rhys-Folmec did not currently stay at the house in Sussex - good, reliable Mrs. Hudson! What a well of information she could be, if accordingly deployed. The note from M. Simon was also in the negative. No man or woman of the name of Rhys-Folmec was registered in Paris.

He lent against the mirrored wall biting his nails. Maybe, he had been on a bit of a wild goose chase about that. But he was not yet convinced. It would be almost too great a coincidence. The lift boy stopped the elevator for him to step out on his floor. He went down the hallway and into his suite. Back to Frances!

He sat down on the plush, elegant sofa and poured himself two finger-breadths of brandy. Swirling the amber liquid in the glass, he meditated on the various strategies he had tried so far. The alcohol had failed, the ingratiation, the bullying. But he had been close…today, he had felt it. He could break her, and then, he would know her, for better or worse.

He rose to stand by the window and look into the street as had been his wont in Baker Street, still swirling the brandy with gentle circulations of the wrist. Yes, the strategies heretofore employed had not been good enough. But maybe, combined they might do the trick. There still was a lot of liquid in that bottle, and a lot of uncomfortable questions he could ask.

 **Hi folks!**

 **Finally - some development! Sorry to keep you so long. But a story must be evolved before it can pick up a little pace.**

 **What are your thoughts?**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	14. Chapter 14

**Invisible Scars**

 _„_ _As with new wine intoxicated both/ They swim in mirth, and fancy that they feel/ Divinity within them breeding wings/ wherewith to scorn the earth."_

 _Paradise Lost_

In the midst of sewing pleats into a blouse, I received a note from Holmes, and read it presently. He let me know he would have the results from his chemical tests tonight, and invited me to drop by for dinner, in case something should come of it.

Lowering the slip of paper, I felt myself the target of Madame Martinez' searching glance. No doubt she was weary of the past weeks' extravagance - police and detectives calling at her boutique, taking me away for interviews, and my own self, leaving early from work a couple of times. Much as I knew she esteemed my faculties, I would have to watch out if I desired to remain in her service.

It was this consideration that caused me to overstay my usual hours, helping Madame with a pressing commission: Sewing the intricate, tiered skirt composed of various silks and linens took us longer than I had reckoned, and when I checked the watch, it was past ten, and darkness had fallen hours ago.

I hesitated. Was it appropriate to seek out Holmes at this hour? He probably did not expect my coming anymore. Maybe he had gone out, or had even retired for the night. Then again, that was not what I had known him to be - in our Sussex days, he had often been up late into the night, reading, researching, or just thinking, his head clouded in the meditative smoke of his pipe. Still, habits may change, and I was therefore a little timid when I stepped up to the concierge's desk at the Meurice.

He knew me by sight now, and eyed me disparagingly with his eye resembling that of a dead fish. I had dedicated express care to my wardrobe tonight, wearing my muslin promenade dress over the brand new S-bend corset, but I felt he remembered the torn linen frock of two nights ago, and had not forgiven it.

„ _Monsieur Holmes s'est retiré, mademoiselle_ ", he let me know in the most condescending of tones.

„ _Veuillez envoyer quelqu'un lui chercher_ ", I insisted. „ _J'attendrai_."

And to prove my intention, I took a seat on one of the frail antique upholstery, whose purely decorative function was more than apparent. My impertinence was crowned with success, for after the quarter of an hour, the concierge, having made a telephone call, stepped out of his box. Suppressing my mild surprise that the lower part of his body, heretofore concealed, was not covered in scales, I rose to meet him.

„ _Monsieur Holmes voudrait vous voire_ ", he informed me coldly. „ _C'est la chambre 443_." And he waved me toward the elevator, obviously glad to be rid of the nuisance.

oooOOOooo

As I knocked on his door, there was a kind of shuffling sound to be heard from the other side, and after nearly a minute had passed, it was opened to me.

„I beg your Pardon ter interrupt so late", I began, „but I was detained at work and…"

But I fell silent as my eyes took in the interior of the suite. It was not only its splendour. Up to now, I had seen enough of the Meurice to expect expansive rooms, lots of gold and a shiny hardwood floor. And yet, what I saw clashed so irreconcilably with what I would have expected from Holmes. Apart from the fact that he favored a certain solid English cosiness, I had known the man apt to engender an inconceivable mess around his person in the most constricted intervals of time. Sussex had been far from pristine, though tempered by several pairs of female hands. Baker Street, his bachelor dwelling, had been worse, somewhere between an evidence vault, chemical laboratory and junk room.

But either he had changed his chaotic habits, or the hotel staff had wrought a miracle, as there was no cluttered surface in the whole place, not a single article that did not look as if it did not expressly belong there. Above all, there were candles - actual, burning candles in a house completely electrified! - and champagne in a bucket with crushed ice. It was like the setting of a romantic stage-play. I shook my head smilingly. There could be no room on earth Holmes would look more out of place in!

„Good evening, Frances", a soft voice said next to me, and I turned my head.

Had I just declared him out of place in this candle-lit phantasmagoria? How changed he looked from yesterday! Gray eyes that had pierced me mercilessly were now directed at mine with a frank and open expression, quite earnest, but without the hardness that had daunted me and my guilty conscience. His still youthful face, though mitigated by rough lines, conveyed a feeling kind, yet guarded with temperate aloofness.

He had been dressed for dinner, as was apparent by the white shirt and coal suit, but had abandoned the jacket in his frustrated wait. His whole air of patient disappointment made my sense of guilt increase dramatically. How thoughtless of me, to not even send a reply note I would be delayed….!

„You have been at work all this time? You must not drive yourself so hard. Your Uncle John would not like it….and neither do I. Sit! I take it you did not have time to think of food?"

„I have not", I replied, awkwardly crossing over to the plush sitting group, „but it ain't of no consequence and I'll just - „

„Ah, here we go", he cried, as a rap on the door interrupted me. Flinging it open, he gave way to the sight of two young waiters and a trolley bedecked with all kinds and shapes of tiny silver ware.

„ _Là-bas, s'il vous plaît_ " he instructed the men, gesticulating into the room, „where the lady sits."

„Mr. Holmes, you shouldn't `ave…." I muttered, as various delicacies were spread around me like a sphere of copiousness around a hollow planet. „Ye knows I'm used to not eating for hours on end."

He shrugged his shoulders and laughed, looking even younger in the light of the candles. „You're my guest not so much as that of the French Government, remember. Do you want to shame them? _Ce sera tout, merci_."

The two waiters left us alone, and we embarked on the exploration of the various Tit-bits from the Meurice kitchen, such as veal tartar, lobster medallions and Iranian caviar.

„Is there a partic'lar reason for celebration?" I asked as he filled our glasses with champagne. „`ave the laboratory tests brought any results?"

„None whatsoever", he replied carelessly, „the tea was just tea. No matter! We will find other clues."

Whence he took his optimism was incomprehensible to me. Until now, hints had been far and between. According to my conception of the situation, we had just lost another scanty chance of ascertaining Madame's fate. The food was rapidly loosing its attraction to me, and I passed on to drinking champagne, feeling a need for fast-acting consolation.

„What news did your day bring?" Holmes enquired. He was seated on a settee arranged at right angles with the sofa I had taken possession of. His long legs were crossed before him, and the champagne flute dangled precariously from his slender hand.

„Nothing worth mention, only work. But I had nearly forgotten…." And I bent down to retrieve the bag I had brought. „I made this during my break. It is nothing special, but maybe Mildred will like it nonetheless."

And I took out a straw hat with velvet lining, decorated with silk roses. „D'ye fink it appropriate? I mean - „

I faltered, not sure how to express my scruples. As a peasant woman, Mildred would have little occasion to put on finery. On the other hand, every woman enjoys a wee bit of luxury from time to time. I had hoped to achieve a sort of compromise between the two considerations.

Holmes reassured me. „Very judiciously chosen, Frances. I am sure my bucolic neighbor will appreciate it."

„I am glad ye should fink so."

„Yes, by all means, but put it in yonder suitcase, please. I do not absolutely need female frippery to be found in my rooms by the housemaids."

„Of course", I said with an absurd blush, rose and went over to the armoire indicated by him. Opening it, I put the hat, carefully wrapped in its bag, into one of the leather suitcases stowed inside. As I closed it, I though I saw Holmes in the mirror on the inside of the door, re-filling my champagne flute.

With a bit of hesitation, I returned to my sofa, and lowered myself onto it rather stiffly. „I think I ought to leave, bye and bye", I remarked. „It has grown late."

„If I am not much mistaken, tomorrow is Sunday", Holmes observed, unmoved. „Besides, you haven't finished your glass. Should I have been pouring this divine drop for an ingrate?"

I smiled, though through a little force. „Ye knows I `ave work always, even on Sundays."

He did not reply at once, but his eyes had a strange glitter in them. „For my sake, Frances", he finally said.

I cast down my eyes with a bizarre sense of confusion. „As you wish. I'll stay fer another glass."

„Good", he softly said, and held it out to me.

I accepted it haltingly, and sipped at it.

„Frances", he said with the same soft, almost venomous inflection. „It won't do, you know."

I lowered the glass in confusion. „I ….beg your Pardon?"

„You know what I'm talking about, Frances", he drawled, rising slowly from his seat to approach me.

I swallowed hard. „I - don't, Mr. `olmes", I asserted. Did he have to tower over me so forbiddingly? Did he have to throw his long shadow over my face?

As if he had heard my thoughts, he bent down, fastening his hands around either upper arm of me. I started.

„Do not - LIE!" He hissed, and suddenly all the genial warmth was gone from his face, all of the careless youthfulness. It was set in hard, merciless lines, defining his brow, aquiline nose, and jaw. I was shocked by the abrupt change, and the adrenaline that jolted through my body gave me unexpected strength.

„How dare you!" I jumped to my feet, shaking off his clambering hands. „This is intolerable! I will leave now, this instant!

And I circled the coffee table to evade him, but he was quicker. Intercepting me on my way to the door, he caught me by my wrists. „You shall go nowhere, not before you have parted with every blasted bit of knowledge you withhold from me!"

„You blackguard!" I spit into his face. „Luring me here wiv your pretended friendship an nice manners…now ye shows yer real face! Is this `ow ye treated my aunt? Then I don't wonder she jumped!"

At these words he pushed me from him with a powerful thrust. I stumbled backwards, one aching wrist caught in the other protectively. His eyes blazed, and he looked like he would fain kill me.

„Talk", he said with a coldness that was strangely at odds with his incensed look. I squared my shoulders and set my jaw, preparing for attack.

„You will let me pass this moment. Let me owt, and never come near me again, or I'll call the police!"

„You." He laughed out loud, a brief, spiteful laugh. „YOU call the police!"

Then the truth hit me. He had known all along. I had thought I did not trust him - he did not trust ME! We had been stalking each other like animals, but he had laid the better trap. I had walked straight into it. And I could see no way out.

For a moment, I considered yelling, raising a riot that would bring help. But of course, it would be futile. The walls in this house were thicker than in a prison, to protect the noble occupants of the rooms from the racket of the Rue Rivoli.

I did not have much more time to think. He came closer with measured steps. My hands itched to grab a chair, a vase, anything to hurl at him - an instinct instilled in me from the earliest age. But I could not. I stood motionless, until he was quite there. Then I tried to recede. But there was not much space left. The window sill stopped my passage by pressing into my rump. I might even have considered leaping out, but we were on the fourth floor.

With accelerated inhalation, my eyes wide open, I looked into his face. He stared back, and I had perforce to lower my eyes to the floor, before they shot up again.

„Well?" He said quietly.

„Mr. `olmes…I …I can't…."

He seized me impatiently, and shook me through and trough. My hair came undone, locks tumbling from the elaborate hair-do and over my shoulders. My resistance was alerted, and I fought as hard as I could. But he was strong, and under his iron grip, my white muslin split open along the backside with a loud, ugly _ratch_!

„Will you speak!" He panted, his fingers digging into my hair and giving it a fierce tear.

„Please! Please understand….!" Tears shot into my eyes with the pain. „I cannot! I promised!"

„Will you speak!"

„No, no!" I shook my head violently.

„Then you will only have yourself to thank."

His cruel hands locked at the small of my back, and with a strength I had not known hands could possess, ripped the lacing of my corset.

The shock of his hands on my naked back drowned each utterance nascent in my mind. I gasped, overwhelmed by the reality of the unspeakable things that were happening. But I was not a bystander, not an acquiescent object of his aggression. My hands clawed into his shirt front as he lifted me from the ground, and lowered the two of us ruggedly onto the canopied monstrosity of a bed.

The remains of my dress had already slipped to the floor. Removal of my ruined corset left me clad in only my stockings, and my briefs. Then, those were also gone, and his fell eyes were given no more restraint. His hands roved me aimlessly, then again clutched at me as if in despair. Teeth dug greedily into the flesh of my shoulder.

Oh God, what was all this? I breathed hard with each rude attempt at my innermost core. Save for the writhing of my body, I could not move or even free myself: The relentless hands still held me fast, sliding over my breasts, my neck, as if searching for something that was not there.

 **Hi Guys!**

 **A case of** ** _Oops_** **, the adventure of the distressing misstep, or a study in stupidity? We shall see! In any case, remain prepared for the next chapter!**

 **Best, Mrs.F**


	15. Chapter 15

**Effigy**

 _„_ _As if predestination overruled/_

 _Their will, disposed by absolute decree/_

 _Or high foreknowledge"_

Paradise Lost

The water of the Seine flowed dark and sluggish beneath the gilded arches of the Pont de la Concorde. He flicked a cigarette end over the parapet and watched it flutter down into the unhurried flood. It touched the waves as a faint white speck, and was carried out of his sight, below the bridge. Moving slow as the water that was passing deep down underneath his feet, he lit another one and smoked it, leaning against one of the iron-wrought lamp posts, whilst around him, the City began to stir.

It began with a low hum, the distant rumble of wheels and the call of coarse voices - the milkmen, the scavengers, the market workers flowing toward Les Halles and the Marché St. Germain. He closed his eyes, concentrating. In his mind, he raised both arms, conducting the rising swell. New instruments joined in at each moment, the clatter of hooves, the monotonous call of newspaper boys, the drunken slur of night-birds turning in late. A barge wheezing up the river. His hands motioned faster, speed increasing at the same time with volume. The signal horn of an early omnibus hooted as it rolled over the bridge. The feet of increasingly more pedestrians pattered on the pavement. The first metro train of the day shook the ground beneath. And then -

Arms flung apart win his mind, he opened his eyes: Here he was, among the traffic in one of the busiest places of one of the liveliest cities in Europe. The vapour that had earlier hung above the water had cleared away, and the sky grew lighter and lighter every moment. And his smoke….it had consumed itself between his fingers. Very well. He turned and tossed it over the parapet, as he had done with the last. It was caught up by a small eddy, swirling three, four times before it was soaked, and sank.

He stuck another cigarette between his lips - how many had he smoked? He couldn't remember - but forgot to light it, and, resting both hands on the stone parapet, stared into the distance, as if a reason were written across the horizon why he was standing here in the chill morning air, hour after hour.

Certainly, the occasion called for more than cursing oneself as a damned fool. Yes, yes. Of course he knew. He had provoked her deliberately - had wanted her to flare up, wanted her to fly into a passion. It was a kind of irrational behavior he did not known he was guilty of…and yet! He had sensed something like this would happen, he had waited for it without anticipating it. Rationality would have dictated his abandonment of the case at the very moment she had entered the scene. But he had flattered himself he was in control of everything, had proudly stuck with the task they had consigned to him, and yes, he had wanted her of course.

Even here, even now, some part of him insisted that he go back to the warm, accursedly romantic room where he had left her and, if she were still there, have her a second time. And that was the truth! He smiled bitterly. What a despicable old man he had become. Kitty had been too young for him, but Fanny, with her twenty-odd years, was a child in comparison to him. And as if that were not enough, she had once been on the verge of calling him `uncle`! A pain flickered in his chest at the thought - was that shame? At any rate, he was glad Kitty was not here to see him thus. She would loathe what he had done to her niece, and to himself.

oooOOOooo

I woke up to a glimmer of gold through my slowly parting lashes, and a concomitant sense of nausea. It _had_ happened, then! Beneath the lavishly gilded ceiling, all my stratagems to make myself believe otherwise came to naught. Oh God!

I dropped my head to the other side, hand wiping the hair back from my forehead. It grazed the remains of my ruined stays, situated somewhere to the side of my head and to all intents and purposes knotted into the twisted sheets. I knew I had to properly open my eyes sometime soon. Pray let him not be there!

He was not there. I sat up tall to make quite sure. He was not there, or at least not anywhere near the bed. I pumped my legs to get rid of the sheet that had also twisted around my ankle. With an almost inaudible Swish!, one of my stockings sailed to the floor. Oh God!

I dropped my disheveled head into both of my hands, pressing my eyes shut in a pain that was, indeed, physical. What the god-damned deuce had I got myself into? I might well look like my Aunt Cathy, but, curse it, I was not her and I had no business to drop into her widowers bed like a ripe apple!

There was a noise somewhere. I scrambled frantically, wide awake and fully aware of my nudity. A knock on the door - I gasped, and snatched a sheet to press against my form. The valet! He tried three more times, after which he desisted, and I sighed my heartfelt relief. At least I knew now I was alone in the suite. Still, what a wretched disaster!

I collapsed back onto the bed, and sat biting my nails. Situations got out of hand I dreaded more than the plague, in consequence I rarely had them. This just was not the kind of thing that happened to a girl like me! And yet, I suspected that the same went for him - had I ever known him to lose control? Was not everything that happened to him well calculated?

He had manipulated me. Yes, I was sure of it. It was not just the alcohol, rather, it was everything else - the candles, the talk, the mellow pleasantness of it all and the appealing contrast to the sudden menace…oh, it had been a game, his game, and I had not seen it! I would not even have credited him with such a scheme.

But it had been worse than useless, it had been infamy. He could not get from me what he wanted. Kitty, Kitty. She had been on his mind. He had made a simulacrum of me, the unwitting look-alike, to worship in lieu of the deity. What a bleeding fool I had been. I could not even be angry with him in the face of such fatuity.

It remained for me to escape from this place unnoticed. My clothes were more or less in rags; I picked them up from the bed and the floor respectively. The S-bend absurdity I had been so proud of consisted now of a collection of panels loosely chained together by the broken seams, and I wrapped it around my torso and tied the lacing as best I could. The rest of my underwear, when found beneath the bed, appeared intact, and I put it on quickly.

Another things was, he knew I had not told him all - had known it all along, maybe. I hesitated to think of the implications. I had walked with him, talked to him, thinking all the while I could hide away some things in the vaults of my memory, and never let him know. Probably I had amused rather than outwitted him. I set my teeth, tortured by the humiliation. And speaking of which -

I had slipped what remained of my dress over my head, and stepped in front of the armoire, peering into the looking glass. A pale, thin woman stared back, unruly with a lot of auburn hair hanging around her head, and dressed in things that might as well have been handed out by the poor relief. How could I get away without being seen?

I applied a few touches to my hair and apparel, but did not do much good. The tear I had had in my dress the other day was nothing in comparison to the state of my costume. The deep slash in the back of my muslin frock I had poorly mended with a few safety pins, but I still looked a roughly-used harlot, and whoever saw me would take me for exactly that.

On tiptoe, I went to the door, and opened it an inch or so. Nobody was to be seen, so I opened it wider, and peeped into the hallway. It was empty. I saw my chance, and took it. A few swift steps brought me to the elevator. The lift boy, of course, could not be avoided, but he did not look twice, and I presumed he had known guests to order a girl up to their room, and was used to pretty much everything.

Nervously, I kneaded my fingers as we sank lower and lower toward the ground floor. I was glad I had avoided him. I knew we had to see one another again, of course….and things would have been easier, much easier, if talked over at once. I ought to have been brave, and waited for his return to confront him with my thoughts. Next time, everything would be a thousand times more difficult. But I was a coward, and I could not. I just could not.

All too soon, the screening doors of the elevator parted, and the hotel vestibule lay before me. I closed my eyes, stepped out and opened them again. It was a busy hour, and there was quite a bustle in the entrance area. I walked staidly, not too fast, not too slow, and realized gladly that nobody really paid attention to me. What a mercy I had got into this rush!

A few more steps, and I would be at liberty. In the street, the figure I cut would not even be noticed. I inhaled deeply to prepare for my passage past the footmen, when I chanced to turn my head to the left, where the concierge had his cabin. The vile person! Of course he was there, and of course he saw me. His eyes met mine exactly, and his mouth curled in derision.

With a leap, I exited the hotel, feeling the sharp glance of the doorman in my back. Tears of abasement burnt in my eyes, and I fled into the crowd, a longed-for harbor of anonymity. I, Frances Morris, had since my childhood hoped never more to be the laughing stock of the prosperous, highbred, and well-dressed.

oooOOOooo

My day, begun unter the least favorable auspices, continued to be awful. Having changed clothes, I arrived at work twenty minutes late. Madame already waited for me, and I anticipated the worst. Her dark eyebrows were raised ominously.

„Mademoiselle Morris! This will have to stop."

„I am so sorry, Madame. On my way, I realized there was a stain on my sleeve, so I had to return home to get changed - „

She waved my excuse away. „That is not the point. Superintendent Dulage is waiting for you in my office. Pray, how many times more will he come? The clients are getting annoyed with his presence. If he and you have any more affairs to settle between you, I suggest you do it somewhere else, and out of business hours."

Over her shoulder, I could see some of the girls sniggering. Of course, they had listened avidly to Madame scolding me. Her suggestion that I had dealings with André Dulage that had to be relegated to my leisure time had fallen on fertile ground. Their sneering faces told me so.

I raised my chin. „This is the last time, Madame. I will make it plain to Monsieur Dulage."

And I went stiffly, with shoulders drawn up. There was more than one reason why I objected to his call myself. One of those was the fact that on our last meeting, I had fainted and ended up on the couch in his office, with him administering _sal volatile_ to me.

He waited, his lower back leaning into Madame's bureau, as handsome and genial as ever. We exchanged quick greetings. The incident at the Sûrété was not mentioned.

„Monsieur Dulage, I am afraid you cannot continue coming `ere. Ye must see the difficulties yer calls occasion fer me…me employer is a tolerant person, but there are boundaries to `er patience. Please un`erstand that I am liable ter certain considerations."

„Of course, I can see your point." Dulage nodded sympathetically. „And I can promise that in the unlikely event I will have to question you again, we will arrange for a meeting at the Sûrété. However, I am also have my bounden duties as regards the case."

„Certainly. Well, what is it you wanted ter ask me terday? I can `ardly conceive of any aspect o` the matter we didn't talk o`er yet."

He smiled an endearingly bashful smile. „Indeed, Miss Morris. And still, in the light of the latest developments I have to trouble you yet again. I am talking about a charge against two anonymous intruders, pressed by the doorman of some oriental congregation somewhere in the _faubourg_. The connection with our present case is that Madame Zhao was a member of this society, and reportedly the trespassers questioned some of the guests about her."

„Re`lly", I replied, feeling my cheeks color a little.

„The man gave a detailed description of the strangers", Dulage continued with his bashful smile still in place. „The only thing I need to know, Miss Morris, is whether you have formed any idea of what Madame Zhao's position was in this congregation, what she really _did_ there. The chairpersons were very reserved on this point."

„I am afraid I cannot help ya", I said, my head ever hotter. „I don't know more than you do."

„Pray think, Miss Morris. Did Madame Zhao never talk about the activities of this circle? Think hard. Is it possible that certain techniques are being practiced there, such as meditation, or maybe strategies that would render her resistant to great hardships?"

I shrugged. „I must say I can't follow you. She is not any sort of magician, if that is what ya means."

„No, no. Assurément." He glanced down at the tips of his feet. „I was just wondering. The East has figures out many skills that we don't know the first thing about. Maybe there is more to Madame Zhao than meets the eye - it would be useful to know if she possessed psychic powers, hypnosis, mesmerism, things like that."

„Not that I am aware of. And now, if you will excuse me, I need to go back to work. Haven't sown a stitch terday."

As if to confirm my idleness, Madame Martinez burst into the room. „Mademoiselle Morris!"

„I am `ere, Madame."

„I need you to go to Le Chat Noir tonight. The Comtessa di Moncada is in town for her honeymoon tour - and I have information she is certain to see the shadow play there tonight. She will be incognito, but you will know her."

She shoved a photograph into my hand that showed a fashionable young woman engaged in horse riding.

„You must get a glance at her costume, and make a sketch for me. Whatever she wears, we will make a copy. Eight thirty tonight!"

And she went out, calling over her shoulder, „Are you still here, Superintendent?"

André Dulage coughed quietly and took his hat. At the door, he stopped and turned around. „By the way - your friend Monsieur Holmes, what does he make of the whole thing? Has he made any comment on it?"

I crossed my arms. The sound of Holmes' name was exceedingly unwelcome at present. „I do not know. Why don't ye ask him yerseln?"

„Ah, but you are right. Good day, Miss Morris." And he disappeared through the door. I could see him all the way down the street from the window, walking farther and farther away with his weird, pigeon-toed gait.

 **Hi ppl!**

 **I really enjoyed writing, and hope you will enjoy reading. See you soon for the next chapter!**

 **Best, Mrs. F**


	16. Chapter 16

**Moment of truth**

„ _That sacred fruit, sacred to abstinence,_

 _Much more to taste it under ban to touch._

 _But past who can recall, or done undo?_ "

Paradise Lost

Leaning back in my chair, I added a few strokes to my thumbnail sketch and let the pencil sink with resignation. From where I was seated in the low, tubular hall, it was impossible to catch a glimpse of the Contessa di Moncada. Having arrived in advance, an unfortunate pick of position had lodged me at a table close enough to hers to hear her warm, guttural laugh, but still out of sight.

She was a young, slight brunette. I had had an opportunity to look at her when she and her entourage had passed my table; unaware of course that it was she I had come to see, much rather than the famous shadow play. Of course, how could she know I saw through her incognito? The representative of one of the numerous cheesy society newspapers in this city would no doubt have molested her with questions…but Madame would not thank me for discrediting her genteel establishment in this manner.

The girl did not look so much like a countess than just a happy bride on her honeymoon. But her sense of fashion, I would have perceived even without knowing beforehand, was excellent. She wore a white V-necked evening gown with scarlet floral embroidery on the bodice and lower half of her skirt and a sumptuous scarlet overcoat, gathered into a train by an application of velvet roses on one side. Her white-gloved hands held a large ivory fan, and the dark hair was tied in a funny top knot, and dressed with a scarlet headgear.

It was a complex ensemble to take in at a single glance, and I despaired of getting the embroidery right in my sketch. So instead of wearying myself with the pencil, I craned my neck in an attempt to get yet another impression of the design. But the most I could get was a look at the Contessa's genially smiling face among those of her companions, and the way she dotingly listened to her new husband talking.

Wholly indifferent to their romance, I tried one more time. The show was about to begin, and very soon, they would dim the light to a point where I had no chance at all of seeing anything at all. Maybe if I raised myself a little from my seat, so as if to re-arrange my skirts, I would be able to see her better. Fussing over my attire, I rose half-way, turning my head the way of the merry party in a by-the-way fashion.

Like myself, the Contessa was a woman of little hight, and she virtually disappeared amongst the men that surrounded her. It was wretchedly bad luck. I was on the verge of letting myself sink back onto my seat, when something else caught my attention. It was a hand, a pale, long-fingered hand, sticking out from the gallimaufry behind the Contessa's table. The hand held a cigarette in a manner that was so familiarly affected, so obviously striking an attitude it could only belong to one single person.

My eyes followed the hand down the arm toward the elbow, dressed in a black sleeve from which the hint of a white shirt cuff emerged. It rested lightly on the table, whilst its owner remained concealed behind the large form of the Contessa's spouse. I did not have to make certain of his identity, though. Sitting down with a brusque movement, I experienced a moment of anxious uncertainty. What in blazes was he doing here? The circumstances hardly allowed for a coincidence. Was it possible he had followed me?

I breathed quickly, the aspiration growing shallow and unwholesome. This was too much - too much. I had to leave. The process of dimming the light, which was set in motion this very instant, provided a welcome cover under which I might disappear unnoticed. Much agitated, my hands felt around for my pencil and sketch, then lifted my bag onto my knees to stuff everything in. A hurried scatter of coins on the table top completed the preliminaries of flight.

It was his voice, his voice behind my back that startled me; that made me stop. „Pray do not leave….not for my sake."

I closed my eyes. He had to be close; close to my ear. Surely he could hear my accelerated breath, if not my hectic pulse. I felt his gaze on the back of my head, on my nape. My resemblance to Kitty had to be perfect from behind.

Involuntarily, I raised my hands to lift the hair and to lay it across the right shoulder, exposing my neck on the left where hers had been scarred up to the ear. I sensed him hesitate, then pass me by. Opening my eyes again, it was so dark already I could only just discern he had taken a seat at my table. The small glow of his extinguishing cigarette told me his right hand rested on the table.

At the far, elevated end of the room, today's play was being announced and introduced with a spooky melody played on the piano forte. On the white screen, eerily illuminated from behind, strange forms began to throng. The impression was that of a caravan, moving against the backdrop of a nightly desert - men, dogs, horses, camels. The shape of the animals made me recall a certain day long ago….when I had been a child at the zoo, marveling at the creatures of the desert, plaguing Holmes with my endless questions about them, until he silenced me by buying me ice-cream.

The world had looked neatly defined and not nearly so complicated in those days. But the child of yore was a child no longer, and the woman it had become could no more be satisfied with ices and the sight of curious animals. I cast a quick glance at what I could see of him in the half light, and wondered whether he were thinking the same thing, or what else he might be thinking about.

But he was unfathomable as ever, and sat silent through the entire hour that the players entertained. It was only when the lights were turned up again, and applause was showered on the performers, that he turned to look at me. His face was extremely cool and collected, haughty almost. It vexed me.

Leaning in towards him, supporting my torso's weight on my forearms, I hissed: „Why in God's name are you `ere? Don't tell me ye came fer the shadow play."

His facial muscles flexed, though not sufficiently to be confused with a smile. „Of course not. Superintendent Dulage informed me I would be likely to find you here."

His words instantly infuriated me against the poor Superintendent. The blackguard! What business had he to relate my whereabouts to Holmes; information he had come by only by the merest coincidence? It was not to be borne!

Meanwhile, Holmes talked on swiftly, as if he wanted to get everything off his chest as quickly as possible. „Frances, I must talk to you. Not here, though. I wish for a private conversation, if you will grant me one. I shall call for a cab to bring me back to my hotel. Will you come with me?"

In my confusion, I had sipped on the glass of wine I had orderer earlier, but choked on it at his words. „Bite yer tongue, Mr. `olmes!"

He started, taken by surprise with my asperity, and cast down his eyes. „Your own place, if you prefer it. It doesn't matter to me."

„That would be worse!" I exclaimed, mortified by the awkwardness of the situation. We were silent for a minute, ere he said:

„Neutral ground, then. We can walk, or go by cab. I don't care Frances, I just need to talk to you. If we drive in circles in a brougham, then that is fine by me. Only let us get away from this jostle."

He looked at me, and I discerned the urgency of his words mirrored in the earnest insistence of his gaze. Yes, he was dead serious, he was not trifling with me.

With some hesitation, I agreed.

oooOOOooo

When I had accepted his proposal to go by foot, I had not thought it was Madame Zhao's flat he would lead me to. It made perfect sense, though - the Montmartre quarter was only ten minutes from the Boulevard de Clichy where _Le Chat Noir_ was located, and of course, he still had the key. Yet I wondered at the queerness of the idea when, ignoring the police seal that prohibited entrance, he unlocked the door and calmly asked me to step in.

Last time we had been here in broad daylight, and the damage that had been done by the intruders had been the prevalent feature. But by night, the place looked oddly forlorn, as though it were feeling void; mourning for its occupant. The subdued light softened the blatant havoc, and the overall impression was one of sadness, not violence.

I went into the kitchen to prepare some tea. While the water was boiling in the kettle, I swept up the spices that had been spilt across the tiles, and the scattered shards of broken glass. Holmes watched me mutely. Of course we both knew I was not allowed to alter anything in the apartment - but something prompted me to remedy at least this deed of destruction; to restore at least this little nook of the place to order.

I emptied the dustpan into the bin and picked one of Madame's china tea pots to put tea leaves in. The oh-so-healthy green tea I prudently ignored, going for the Hongcha. The abandoned little bamboo shovel seemed to dig into the glass almost lovingly, scooping a small quantity of tea and releasing it into the pot just in time, for the kettle started wheezing. I poured the boiling water over the closely furled leaves and waited for them to gradually unfurl while I searched for two cups and saucers to match the pot.

Holmes had taken a seat at the wooden kitchen table. I felt his eyes in my back, but it was preferable to having to look at him or talk to him. I had a certain dread of what was to come, especially since I could not in all fairness blame everything on him. It would be cheap to say he had got me drunk; it would be criminal to insinuate he had offered me violence. Yes, the haematoma on my body bore witness to the fact he had not exactly treated me gingerly, but that was hardly the same thing. I had come to his bed basically of my own will, thus I was not his victim, but at worst, his plaything.

Having prepared tea for him before, I knew how he liked to drink it, and the procedure had a soothing effect on me, inasmuch as following a routine will always be more reassuring than doing something for the first time. Therefore, my hand was steady when I set the crockery on the table between us.

„Thank you…Frances", he said, his deep voice flowing around the vowels and consonants of my name as an attractive undercurrent. There was the warm twinkle in his eyes again, and I realized just in time he was exercising his suggestive arts on me once more. I hardened myself against the friendly allure of his advances.

„Ye're welcome", I said with a coldness that contrasted sharply with his charm offensive, and sat down stiffly. „So, ye wanted ter talk to me?"

This time, he was prepared for a chilly counter, and did not cast down his eyes. Rather than that, he leaned back in his chair, left calf flung across right shin, and smiled arrogantly. „My dear, you would make me too much of a compliment if you were to think evenings like the preceding one are a routine with me. _Of course_ it needs processing."

I am afraid I blushed, though only partially from pudency. He managed to maintain his superior facade in just every situation. Why? My actions certainly were not worthier of reprehension than his. And yet, he was trying somehow to put himself in the right, and me in the wrong, even if it were just on a perceptual level. Wait, I would get the better of him!

I bristled with anger. „Mr.`olmes, whatever it is you need to process, you won`t process it wiv me. I haven't the faintest idea what I may `ave been thinking last night. Presumably, nothing. Serves me right for getting meself into an awful situation! Or do you think it was pleasant for me, being seen go in at night and go out in the morning by this smug, fulsome git of a concierge?"

That hit home. He seemed a little guilty when he admitted: „Naturally….I am aware I did not necessarily distinguish myself through gallantry. Perhaps you can see a way to forgive…taking into account that I am not accustomed…."

I bit into my lower lip, turning my face away. Of course he was not accustomed to being chivalrous. His wife had allowed him to treat her like that, and worse. It was one of the reasons why I had decided at an early age never to become like any of my female relatives. My father had drunken himself mindless on a regular basis and frightened the living daylights out of my mother, who in turn had wreaked her exasperation on us, the children.

And my aunt had been little better. At bottom, what had she been but a whore, doing small time with changing men and making a living of her beautiful face, her voluptuous body. I had not been able to see this as a child, worshipping her with a fervor that stemmed from her fundamental dissimilarity to my mother; and that excluded the possibility of critical judgement. Today I knew she had been soft, never thinking for herself, never working hard. What had I to do with her.

Tears pricked at my eyes, and I quickly rose from the table, turning my back toward him. He gave me time, never saying a word until I had composed myself. Then, he stood next to me and put his arm around my waist, a safe, strong barrier against my afflictions. I felt the light pressure of his lips against the crown of my head. It was the protective deportment of a father toward his daughter, it was what I, a successful adult woman, did not stand in the least need of.

Only, it felt so good.

 **OUF! Fanny and Sherlock need to sort out their feelings asap. I think its the greatest emotional mess I ever created between two characters. And as if that were not enough, the dead woman casts her larger-than-life shadow over the heroine…**

 **…** **.I don't know what's going to happen. So I say good-bye for now. See you!**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	17. Chapter 17

The Copper Pleaches

„High matter thou enjoin'st me, O prime of man/ Sad task and hard, for how shall I relate/ to human sense th`invisible exploits/ of warring spirits"

Paradise Lost

He passed her a handkerchief in silence, and she dabbed her eyes with it, breathing hard to recapture her composure. It was a transient attack of emotional overcharge and hysteria- nothing worse than that. Enough time was everything required to restore her to calm.

So he gave her time. Pouring tea into the two deserted cups, he marveled at his own wisdom…he had learned a lot during the long years of having to deal with people. And at bottom, it was so easy. Rogues would be rogues. Girls would be girls. It all came to that, in the end. And collectors, he suddenly thought, turning the thin, majolica blue cup in his hand, would be collectors….

Ah, no. He was wool-gathering. Setting the cup back on its saucer, he straightened himself. The fact that the late Baron Gruner had collected pretty china did not make the owner of these tea things a wily criminal. If she was alive, she had to be somewhere out there, hindered from her return by force. If not….

He turned around and lightly touched the girl by her shoulder. She raised her face, like a deer in headlights.

„Shall we sit?" He asked quietly.

She followed his invitation, and sat down, drawing her anthracite shawl more closely around herself. Her vibrant red locks contrasted with the sombre color in a way that gave him a headache. What was it about these red-headed women that he was thrown together with them time and again?

He remembered a client one of whose auburn locks had been lined out against the white round of her ear. It had teased him to an extent that was wholly irrational, until he had, in passing, given in to temptation and grazed the curly strand of hair with his fingertips. A fairly embarrassing incident, come to think of it. Fortunately, both the lady and Watson had passed it over without comment.

Fanny sat quietly. Her hands cradled the small blue tea cup, and she gazed into it as though there were the solution to a cosmic mystery on its bottom. She knew what was coming, and she knew he could not spare her.

He cleared his throat, abandoning all intentions of settling the more personal questions before applying himself to the other matter. Clearly, Frances could only take so much, and it was more important to make her speak. But her silence did not sound very forthcoming.

He sighed, and folded his hands on top of the table. „Frances, I am aware you must have a very good reason for not trusting anyone with what knowledge you have. I am not in the official forces, and I cannot make you give up your information, nor do I wish to do so. You have now less occasion to trust me than ever, I am afraid. Still, I cannot forbear asking: Is there anything you can tell me without compromising the justice of your reasons?"

She hung her head so limply he was afraid she had fainted. When she spoke, it was hardly audible due to the veil of pleached hair her words needed to permeate.

„Mr. `olmes, I cannot. It would be a breach o` confidence."

„Ah! You have promised silence to someone."

She nodded.

„And that someone was Madame Zhao, was it not?"

She nodded again. He relapsed into his chair, exhaling sharply. „I knew it! This puts everything into a different light."

He steepled his hands, and brought them closely to his nose. It was odd, but the gesture helped him think. When he had said she had now less reason than ever to trust him, Frances had not contradicted. He would have to try another approach to convince her it would be in the best interest of everybody if she talked.

But that proved unnecessary. Frances, by reclining her head, had parted the thick veil of red hair. She set down the tea cup, and fixed her eyes on him.

„Mr. `olmes", she said brusquely. „If I were ter tell ya what happened - could ye promise ye would not act on that knowledge without my sanction?"

„I could not." He shrugged his shoulders, impatiently. „That is, it would depend on the nature of your reservations. But you cannot specify them without betraying all, I presume?"

Her watery grey eyes peered at him. „You must _not_ share it wiv the police, Mr. `olmes!"

He inclined his head on one side. „Why not, pray?"

„Because that is the promise I made. Not ter tell the coppers."

Holmes considered that for a moment. Then he nodded. „Very well. I, concealing information from the police - ha! It would not be an unheard of occurrence."

Frances gave him a tiny smile before she began to speak. It was a rare enough expression with her to give cause for moderate optimism. Holmes listened with all his attention riveted on her.

„Awright then. It was on Monday - the day that I saw her last. She had had this thing- the King's Orb - in `er workshop for a coupla weeks, and it kept `er so busy I had not seen `er much lately."

Frances' brows drew together in an effort to remember everything as it had happened. „A note reached me at work, in the afternoon. It was from Madame, an` she asked me ter meet `er at `er favorite Café after hours, saying it was urgent."

He leaned forward. „That was the Montmartre place - where we were the other day?"

„The same. I arrived before her, and chose the table…the one ye rightly pointed out ter me, in the bow window. From there, I could see Madame's cab draw up."

„Her - cab?"

„Ah well - not _`er_ cab, of course. One that she hires often, `cause she likes the lad what drives it."

„But the Café! It is not far from here, is it?"

„No no, it is in walking distance. You know Madame is not a good walker. Still, it seemed odd ter taike a cab for such a short way - but it got more odd when Madame came awt, and entered the Café."

„Odd? In what way?"

„Why -„ Frances flung her hands as she despaired of finding the right words. „She was awt of `er mind. I told ya she was `er usual self that day…she wasn't. `er barnet was in a great disorder, and there was a kinda wild look on `er face."

„What happened then?"

„I greeted her, an`she came ter sit at my table. The very moment she had been seated, a group of three or four men came into the Café. They split up an` took the two tables closest to ours. I couldna swear to`t, but I fink one of them was the runner who `ad brought Madame's note to our shop. I began ter feel rather uncomfortable."

„Yes, yes, naturally. Did you bring this to Madame's attention?"

„I _could_ not!" Frances whispered. „Madame talked an` talked, excitedly, rapidly. She spoke a lot of humbug, as she always does when excited. I could `ardly get a word in edgewise."

He hesitated. „What did she say, then?"

„She talked about being followed, and that she would disappear soon. I would have assumed she had gone crazy- if it hadn't been fer the men in the Café, sitting so close to us. I suggested calling in the police, if she did not feel secure. At the suggestion, Madame, if possible, grew even more agitated. She seized my wrists - like so - and `er eyes bored into mine like those of a maniac. `Me girl`, she said, and it sounded so earnest I did not talk back, `Whatever you do, do not go to the police! Tell `em nofink.` Those were `er words."

„Did you ask her whether this was to do with the orb?"

„O`course, that was the first fink that came to me mind. But she did not respond to that at all. Of a sudden, she became chatty in a childish manner, as though she were a girl and I her puppet, `aving pretend tea wiv `er. She poured it out fer me, an' said I should look after me health a lot from now on, an' drink tea an' go to the country perhaps. She said she would pray for me health to St. Lazare."

He issued a whistle. „ I see! Had she mentioned this particular saint to you before?"

„Not that I remember. Maybe he was a new fad of `ers? She `ad a way of gettin` interested in somefink, an' for weeks on end it would be all the rage wiv `er, an` then she would tire of it, and look for some new interest."

„It is possible. What happened next?"

„Well…nofink, really. That's all. Madame left me wivout drinking `er tea, an` as soon as she ad' left, the men on the neighboring tables got up, an' went after `er. I had a great mind ter ignore `er words an` call the police. It was too shady. But she `ad made such an impression on me wiv `er exhortation I could not bring myself ter do it. When Superintendent Dulage came to the boutique the next day to tell me her flat had been broken into and she had disappeared, I knew she had been lucid."

„And that is all you can tell me?"

„That is all I can tell you."

„What about **La vie de St. Lazare**?"he enquired lightly.

Frances blushed. „You do notice ever`thing, Mr. `olmes, don't ya?"

„I would be a pitiful criminal investigator if I didn't realize when somebody tries to smuggle things under my nose. Why did you take that book?"

„For no partic`lar reason…I saw the name on the cover and it made me recall my last conversation with Madame. I thought - I jus' thought - „

„You thought. Obviously." He sighed deeply. „Have you had a look into the book?"

„Yes, Mr. `olmes", she replied, with a sheepish look.

„And…?"

„It is the Vita of St. Lazare. Nothing in it. You may `ave a look at it yerseln, but I leafed through it already. It is just a rummy old book."

„Frances!" His voice was a hiss, or maybe it was the whirr of the air, cut by his fist as it was slammed into his palm. „It is a clue!"

She rubbed her hand over her forehead, suddenly looking tired. „Mr. `olmes, you didna listen ter me. I told ya there was nothing in it. Re`lly. I held each separate page against the light to look for invisible messages."

„No, no, no Frances, you do not understand. Madame Zhao gave you a more subtle clue than lemon juice writings. Oh, she was a clever one!"

„ _Is_ a clever one", she insisted, crossing her arms across her chest.

„She knows she is being watched. That much is obvious. She does not like to call in the police, so what does she do? She takes the King's Orb, knowing it can only be for its sake those men follow her, and hides it somewhere. So far, so good. But what will happen to it after the kidnapping she foresees has taken place? Nobody will know where to find it. Then, she thinks of you."

She seemed incredulous, but he continued unperturbed.

„She does not dare communicate with you openly. But on the other hand, her mail might be under surveillance as well, and even if she could talk to you in private, it would probably put you into severe danger as well. So what can be done? Madame compromises. She meets you in public, within hearing distance of the enemy. What she says seems the nonsensical ramble of a woman frightened well-nigh out of her wits. But there is a method to her madness."

Frances lifted her head and looked at him with a critical eye. „Do ye mean to say there was a meaning to the rubbish she talked?"

„Precisely so. And like any code, her `rubbish`, as you term it, should be decipherable. As such, she is talking about your health when she is really talking about something else. The `tea` you are supposed to drink is a substitute for we don't know what, a variable X. The `trip to the country` stands for somewhere you are supposed to go, possibly the hiding place of the Orb. Remains the clue of St. Lazare. Can you make something of that?"

„I looked `im up in the Encyclopedia." She shrugged. „St. Lazarus of Bethany was a friend of Jesus Christ, who effected his resurrection after death. In the 12th century, an order of knights was founded in Jerusalem, and dedicated to the saint. The order members ran a hospital for lepers, from which the French word `lazaret` derives."

„Aha! A good saint to look after one's health." He got up, and walked to and fro within the confined space of the kitchen. „The book, of course, was left lying about here to set you on the right trail in case you had taken her words for humbug, as indeed you have. It is inconspicuous, and, in itself, not the carrier of any information. Madame, it appears, had hopes you would be able to find out something. That something might be the place where she is hidden, or the place where she hid the orb, or both, possibly."

„But -„ she was clearly befuddled by the implications. „But in this case, she overrated me cleverness, because I hain't the faintest idea what it all means!"

„Are you sure? Can you swear you had never before heard of the saint in connection with Madame? I think you mentioned she was a regular attendant at church."

„That's right…she would go to the service at Sacre Coeur every Sunday, because it is close and has a breathtaking view over the city."

He nodded. The snowy white cupolas of Sacre Coeur, topping the crown of the Montmartre hill, sounded like a spot the aestheticist whose flat he had thoroughly searched would like to frequent. „And the book…had you ever seen it before?"

„No, never. I think you are right, Mr. `olmes. He was not one of `er fads, but just a means ter catch me attention an` maike me think."

She creased her brow.

„Only, I don't `ave any associations wiv the Saint Lazare, save religious ones. Could it be…" and she fixed him again with an intense peer. „ Isn't there a church here in Paris, called St. Lazare?"

He had left the kitchen before she had finished talking, marching straight into Madame's parlor and taking the civic address book from the shelf. They had had the same idea, simultaneously.

 **Hullo!**

 **New developments and a heartfelt thank you to skater. I was beginning to think my story was going the way of all sequels, namely nowhere….you gave me a new impetus! I think I can write with much more drive now. Already have a couple of new ideas!**

 **Love. Mrs.F**


	18. Chapter 18

The old church of St. Laurent

 _„_ _Who aspires must down as low/ as high he soared, obnoxious first or last/ to basest things"_

Paradise Lost

He had found the entry he was looking for ere Frances could follow him into the parlour. His eyes ran over the meagre column of information whilst his brain converted the French into words more natural to him. Then, his head raised, and he met Frances` gaze as she watched him diffidently, her lower arm resting against the door frame.

„Mr. `olmes? Did ya find - anyfink?"

He wrinkled his forehead, thoughtfully. „The church St. Lazare was constructed in the 15th century, in what is today the 10th arrondissement. And what is more - „ and he slapped the page of the Paris address book with his palm, „ - the whole area was the stronghold of a medieval christian community whose members called themselves _Lazaristes_ and nursed lepers during the era of the crusades."

„That`s it." She drew a deep breath. „That _must_ be it!"

He shook his head with regret. „I'm afraid not, Frances. The church was demolished more than sixty years ago, when part of the area was sold to an investment company."

„But Mr. `olmes! Everything fits! I trust this is the place Madame meant me ter go. St. Lazare….and prayer…and the talk about health…"

„No, no, no." He tried to subdue her enthusiasm. „Look, Frances, there's nothing left there. The old infirmary was turned into a prison during the terror, and its archives were destroyed in the religious wars. The old church is gone altogether; it had long been decrepit."

„I am sure…I am sure…"

Shaking her head and muttering, Frances started to rummage the shelves. He wondered what she expected to find there, but did not intervene. It was too much of a relief she was not crying anymore, and he was exceedingly grateful for the change.

Her search did not take her long. Climbing onto a chair, she reached for the very highest shelf. He observed the soft curve of her elongated spine, the strain she imposed on her arm, her tip-toed feet. Her skirt lifted a little to show her ankles, clad in thin, gauzy fabric. He tried not to think of the stockings he had stripped off her legs twenty-four hours earlier, the same white, gauzy stuff.

„Here!" She had managed to snatch the book - a colossal doorstopper - and pursed her lips to gently blow off the dust. „Le`s `ave a look in there. There's gotta be another clue in `ere, somewhere. I jus` can't imagine Madame letting me poke in the dark…"

She lowered the tome onto the floor, and, flipping it open, bend over it, her long hair cascading over her shoulders and streaming down onto the pages. It began to slightly irritate him.

„I suppose you wouldn`t care to let me participate in your perusal", he observed snappily.

She looked up. „I am so sorry, Mr. `olmes! Forgive me rashness, but I recall Madame brooding over this illustrated history of Paris, and so I thought there might be some fink ter be found about these _Lazaristes_ and their fortification in `ere."

„It's possible", he conceded morosely. Lowering himself onto his knees, he inclined his head to get a better view of the page. It was not unusual for him to do his research in this posture, only Mrs. Hudson's carpets offered more comfort than Madame's naked planks, and the fact that his forehead was in constant danger of colliding with that of Frances provided additional grounds for distraction.

Internally, he shook like a wet dog in order to regain a clear head and be able to focus on the text, but before he had come anywhere near this state, Frances pointed out a printed paragraph. „Ya sees! The St. Lazare crypts are still in their original state, albeit communal debate is rife with plans to close them with masonry. This project has up to date been hindered by the circumstance that a tunnel connects them with the newly restored parish church of St. Laurent, which would be adversely affected by the construction works."

He raised his brows. „Whereabouts is this St. Laurent?"

„Ahm…" She browsed the page, brows knit. „Rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin, at the square St. Laurent. Apparently, the building was erected at the same period as the church of St. Lazare. It is as old as the hills."

„Well, we don't intend to buy it, do we? Come now, it has grown late. The hour and the darkness should afford us ideal cover."

He rose from the hard floor with aching knees, aiming for the cane and top coat he had left in the kitchen. A craven exclamation made him linger briefly: „Where are we going, Mr. `olmes?"

„What do you think? We'll have closer look at this crypt. Do you know whether Madame keeps a torch or something of the sort anywhere?"

„There's a paraffin lantern in the kitchen cabinet….but surely you don't mean to…."

„I mean exactly that. Get me the light, Fanny, there's a good girl. And something akin to a crowbar would be most welcome, if you could find something like that."

„A tool kit is kept under the siphon…but Mr. `olmes, is it really wise ter break into a church, of all plaices? What if we are caught?"

„Indeed, we will be trespassing, but we can do no better unless we engage the help the official forces. If you have scruples, you would be well advised to abandon the strictures of your Irish Catholicism, and for once rely on the house owner's faculty for forgiveness. The Church of England would have it that forbearance is his personal forte."

He foraged for the kit beneath the kitchen sink, and having found it, took out pliers, a screw-wrench and a joint-cutter. She watched mutely as he wrapped everything in a tea towel and together with the paraffin lamp stuffed it into the large basket Madame had apparently used for shopping groceries. The wicker work faintly smelled of onions. He held it out for Frances to take.

„Are we ready for departure?" He asked perfunctorily, aiming a strict gaze at her.

„Yes, but….!" Contrary emotions could be seen waging a conflict on her face. He waited calmly, maintaining his glare.

„Awright, Mr. `olmes", Frances sighed her acquiescence, and accepted the basket. „Le's go."

Mechanically, he threw open the door for her to pass through first, but went down the stairs in front of her as he had been taught to do, in what seemed another life. In the street, he waived at a cabby and as he reigned in his horse to come to a halt, let her go ahead again.

With some satisfaction, he saw her slip into the cab before he followed suit. So far, it had been a piece of cake. He had his approved methods for bending people to his will. It had only been a matter of time for Frances to succumb to them.

oooOOOooo

„Mr. `olmes? Don't you fink it'll look rather suspicious fer me ter walk around wit this `ere basket? It is enormous", Frances skeptically observed as they rattled along over the cobble stones.

„Pshaw! In the dark, people will take you for a market woman who has spent her earnings in a beer tavern and returns home late. Besides, I am with you in case any complications should arise", he replied loftily.

She lowered her eyes. „Ya knows I wish her avoid trouble wiv the coppers. Also, I doubt they would be happy ter discover you forcing yer way into an old an` venerable church wivout their license."

„My dear Fanny, what the police would or would not be happy about is not a concern that must weigh very heavy with me. The French Government giving me carte blanche as it were, there is nothing in that for us to worry about. What we need to worry about, on the contrary, is recovering the Orb and clearing the mystery that surrounds your missing friend. And to do this, we have to follow the fresh clues you supplied. So, no more nonsense about the police, if you please."

She fell silent, and looked out of the window, albeit her own reflection in the glass was probably all she could see in the gloom. She looked tired, he thought absently - well, it had been a long working day for her, and the preceding night, he remembered with a renewed bout of shame, had not offered her many opportunities for sleep. It was late now, midnight, as a distant belfry informed him, but she would have to last another couple of hours. Her personal acquaintance with Madame gave her knowledge he had no access to, information she could not consciously single out as important. He could not afford to miss any hint that might offer itself.

He also fleetingly thought of his interview with Président Faure, and his question whether the involvement of Frances would cause any inconvenience. But it did not, did it? Now that the girl had ceased her hostilities and had even admitted him into her confidence, there was no need to beat about the bush. They could talk now without reservations. They might even cooperate well. The other thing hanging in the air was better forgotten, and quickly, too.

He had told the cabby to drop them at an address a few streets away from St. Laurent to avoid attracting attention. Despite his averment to Fanny, he was not quite sure what the reaction of the authorities might be to an undertaking of his sort, and neither did he care very much. Still, it was better not to fly in their faces, and allow the intrusion to be put down as an act of willful vandalism.

Having paid the fare, he drew Frances into the shadow of the houses that lined the narrow throughfare. It was indeed an old part of Paris, one of the oldest of all the city. The rough, uneven plaster beneath their feet might well be medieval, and the houses were so crooked they seemed to meet above their heads, like trees whose crowns tangled. Some facades were adorned with fearful gargoyles, and he could feel Frances gathering her shawl closer about her person.

The square St. Laurent consisted of a bit of public green, enclosed by a high, wrought-iron circumference. Beyond, the church itself loomed: Ancient and hoary, of late gothic origins, with a large rose window above the massive portal, and a pointy spire topping the jagged structure. Frances inhaled as if to bring herself to carry out a determination, and seemed about to cross the square, but he held her back with a motion that was completely disproportionate to the resolution she had mustered.

„No", he murmured, still looking about in case there were onlookers. „A postern is preferable for our undertaking."

They had to navigate a little through the winding streets in order to approach the building from the rear side. Taking a little detour was acceptable though; it seemed advisable to keep under cover instead of moving in the open. The hour rendered it unlikely that they be seen, and yet the possibility of passers-by could never be safely excluded.

They reached the far end of St. Laurent without any contretemps. The large, bulbous outgrowth on the back of the church he took to be the apse. Left of it, there was an angular oriel, possibly the vestry. The only door to be seen was conveniently hidden in the nook between apse and oriel. He decided to try there.

„Light the lantern", he quietly told her, taking the unconventional tool kit he had fashioned from the shopper. Frances obeyed. The small flame flared up like a blaze in the darkness, and she hurried to shade the lamp, always afraid of detection.

Meanwhile, he had singled out the screw wrench as the most likely implement to overcome the latch. It was large, heavy, and, if inserted between door and latch, could be used for leverage. It was hard work, though. He fought against the lever full weight to pry open the door, but it did not seem to give just an inch. Breathing hard, he rested against the door and scrutinized his nails, most of which had been broken in the process. Damnation!

Frances watched him anxiously. She evidently wished to be gone, or, better still, not to have come in the first place. He gave her another glare. Now that the going got tough, she had better show that famous grit of hers, provided it was good for more than hurling insults at him! Catherine would not have been so chicken-hearted.

With a deep inhalation, he put his shoulder to the wheel again and worked the wrench against the wooden bar that barricaded the door. It was bulky, but worm-eaten and brittle with countless years of exposure to all weather conditions. Maybe it had not been renewed in a century - for how often did a church actually become the target of burglary? Except for some devotional objects, there was probably nothing in there worth while - for most people.

He felt the bar give a little, and forced the wrench down with renewed zeal. There was a lengthy sound of breaking wood. Frances gasped, the light in her hand danced nervously and cast bizarre shadows on the massive grey masonry. He let go briefly to massage his aching hands. One more try. Splinters rained down to the ground that was green with lichen.

The bar was now close to splitting in two. He paused again to appease his lungs; burning as if he had run for miles on end at top speed. His breath went at a quick rate, too shallow though to provide him with sufficient oxygen. What a nuisance, growing old! Ten years ago, he would have mastered the task single handed. But now, it seemed as though his iron constitution were failing him altogether.

A tentative hand offered him a handkerchief, gleaming ghostly white in the shadows, and he accepted it gladly to dab the sweat that had collected on his brow.

„We're almost there", he informed her in a hoarse whisper barely recognizable as his own voice. „Keep the light low, and screen it with your shawl, lest passers-by shoulder see the reflex on the wall."

She obeyed, and for the third time, he engaged all the strength at his disposal to force the huge hunk of wood to fall in two. When that was done, the rest was mere child's play. He removed the vestiges from the iron attachments, and motioned Frances to hand him her hat pin, which he inserted into the old and rusty lock. A few expert movements of the hand, and the task was accomplished. The wooden door swung open, more darkness yawning beyond its opening.

Frances faltered, but he had not intended to allow her precedence. Taking the lamp from her trembling white hand, he strode into the black cavern, never hesitating for a second.

 **Hullo!**

 **Here we are among the remnants of medieval Paris, gargoyles and all….and what may they not hold in store for our detective duo? They should hurry a little to find out, as the situation of Fanny's friend hasn't changed for the better!**

 **Expect you back for more darkness and old stones!**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	19. Chapter 19

….and Down the Apples Again

„ _Hadst thou been firm and fixed in thy dissent/_

 _neither had I transgressed, nor thou with me_."

Paradise Lost

It took all of my courage to follow Holmes into the utter darkness of the church. My nervousness, heretofore directed against people from the outside, who might notice our attempts to force our way in, was now elicited by a less tangible source of potential danger. I raised the petroleum lamp, so as to get at least a small glimpse of our surroundings.

It was a high, vaulted room. Somewhat to my relief, it was outfitted rather with objects for everyday use than with the mysterious paraphernalia of worship - there were cupboards and a sink; the vestry, I suppose. In a hushed voice, Holmes asked me to help him find the passage to the altar.

„There", I muttered, lifting my torch to show him the round arch, framed with sandstone.

„Very well", he whispered. „And then there must be another passage…one by which the clergyman may enter without crossing the apse."

„That would be the one by which we caime, I s'ppose."

He snarled. „He barricades it on the outside, and takes everything down when he returns? I should think not. No, no, my girl, this door hasn't been used in years. There must be some other channel by which one may come and go. Ah!" And he snatched the light from my hand to turn away from me.

„Don't leave!" I squealed, startled and at the same time despising myself for the cowardly ring of my words.

He looked back, and smirked visibly in the half light. „Not to worry, Frances. If you don't go astray, there is no danger of loosing sight of me. Just follow the light. Come along now, we yet have to find the entrance to the subterranean passage."

I shuddered when I thought that we had not even arrived where we wanted to be - well, where he wanted to be, for I, at this moment, had not the least inclination to step down into a dark and mouldy tunnel, without having told a soul where we would be going. Who knew whether the brickwork had not decayed over the centuries? It might come loose, and we would be buried alive!

But Holmes beckoned me on impatiently, and I dared not let him out of my sight. Thus I followed him through an opening in the wall, two or three steps down, and through a short corridor that brought us into the nave. By the light of our poor lamp, it looked gigantic, its thick, round columns vanishing in the shadows above. I would have liked a lot to look at everything by daylight, presently, however, I was not in the mood for surveying. Neither had we time for that - Holmes did not seem to have a precise idea of where the entrance to the cellar might be located.

He thoroughly searched the floor, and cursed under his breath because he could see so little. He particularly explored the close vicinity of the altar, and even tried to move it without success. Meanwhile, I could not be of much help, without light or even a faint idea where to look. Instead, I rested myself against the baptismal font, and took out my handkerchief to dab my forehead. Cold sweat was gathering there, and it was probably just as well nobody could see my face.

„Frances? Come here, I would like to see whether the two of us could not move that monstrum of an altar a few inches to the side!"

Obediently, I set in motion, but suddenly realized that my hanky was no longer between my fingers. I looked around. The floor looked the same everywhere; namely dark.

„Holmes!" I called through the nave, „Holmes, I do need the light!"

„I beg your pardon?"

„I said, I need the light! I dropped my handkerchief, and now I can't find it!"

Holmes appeared from behind the altar, breathing heavily and, to all intents and purposes, frustrated. „You lost your handkerchief? For heaven's sake, Fanny, I daresay you have more than the one!"

„Yes…it's just…there's me name on it in embroidery…"

He stared at me for a second, then he groaned. Turning up the light a notch, he came to where I stood, conscious of guilt.

„Now, this is what comes from taking a woman on to the investigation", he grumbled, illuminating the ground inch by inch.

„It can't be very far away", I mumbled apologetically. „I dropped it right `ere…"

Suddenly, I spied a white speck on the ground and eagerly dashed at it. „My handkerchief!"

But Holmes, I realized, did not pay attention. He gazed intensely at something that looked like scratches in the stone, two long, curved scratches, parallel to one another. It seemed like something very heavy had been dragged over this short span of floor.

Holmes looked up, and fixed his eyes on the baptismal font. With two quick strides, he was there, and put all his weight against the massive stone work. However, it was not so massive as it appeared. With an ugly, screeching noise, the font allowed itself to be turned to the left, just far enough to reveal a quadrangular hole in the ground; the upper end of a rather steep flight of stairs.

„Voilà", he muttered, evidently still rather amazed by our discovery. I looked down into the hole.

„Mr. `olmes…" I began, but he did not let me finish.

„I know, I know. It is narrow, and steep. Madame Zhao could not have descended these stairs, even if she had known of this fabulous hiding place. But now we are here, we should not forego the opportunity to make certain she had not entrusted somebody else with the treasure, should we?"

I raised my brows. „I should think it highly unlikely. If she had done so, that person would of been me."

„You? You blanch at the mere sight of the tunnel. Maybe Madame thought you not hardy enough to perform the dangerous task."

That sufficed to silence me. Holmes returned the lamp to me, and before I knew what was happening, his long legs had disappeared in the black quadrangle. I squatted beside the hole to give him the benefit of my light for as long as possible. A long minute went by before I heard him call from below.

„It is your turn, Frances!"

I was not eager to descend into this dank dungeon, but what could I do? Pressing my lips together, I slung the handle of the lamp over my arm and carefully stepped downwards on moist and slippery stairs, facing the quadrangular entrance as I would have done on a ladder.

I felt myself close to the ground when a pair of hands slipped around my waist and lifted me off the slick stairs. My breath quickened, and when he had put me down to the floor, my manipulative consciousness expanded the fracture of a second before he let go to an eternity; an eternity spent leaning against him, with his breath close to my ear and his hands on my midriff.

But it was just a freak of the mind, an illusion. We were nothing but two people standing in a filthy old tunnel, probably bound for a wild goose chase. I was a little annoyed with him for insisting we come down here, and even more so for realizing that I was scared.

„After you", I said wrily, and indicated the way lying before us: an unpleasantly low passage that started within the radius of our light, and continued toward some unfathomable point ahead in the darkness.

He muttered something that sounded like cursing at the inferior hight of our forefathers, and with his back slightly bent proceeded into the gloomy dungeon. I followed on his heel so he should be able to see whither he trod, and also to be close to him, for in my state of anxiety, everything seemed possible down here. Who knew whether we were even alone in the passage!

All of my terrifying visions seemed confirmed when suddenly, there was a loud, dull thud, and Holmes, who recoiled quickly, stepped onto my toe rather painfully. I bit back a small cry, so he should not think it stemmed from poltroonery. However, raising the lamp, I could no longer check myself, and issued a stifled shriek: The object that had so unexpectedly dropped into our path was a _scull_!

A human scull, and no mistake! It grinned up at us as though it enjoyed the sight of our distraught faces. How had it come here? Who had played this nasty trick on us? And more importantly, where exactly was he?

I lifted the lamp higher to look around while Holmes kneeled and picked up the gruesome artifact. „Hullo! What have we here?"

„Holmes…."

By the light of my lamp, I had discovered whither the skull had come. It had not been cast at us by a frightening maniac.

Far worse.

Holmes lifted his head, following the direction of my outstretched arm. I could see enough of his face to realize his eyes widened when he beheld the origin of our scull. Slowly, he rose to his feet and took a few steps towards the wall. Standing in front of it, he gazed at its full length and hight.

It was plastered with bones! The skulls were on top, side by side. Underneath, bones had been painstakingly stacked, sorted into homogenous layers so that the overall impression was that of an orderly bookshelf - apart from the fact that there were no books in it! Our light did not reach very far into the tunnel, but as far as I could see, there was no end to the macabre exhibition.

„,What is all this, Mr. `olmes?" I exclaimed timorously. „What can it mean?"

He was busily browsing the bones on display, and hardly found the time to wave me away. „Oh, tut, Fanny, tut. You're incessantly startled, and for no good reason. Or what do you think these harmless mortal remains could possibly do to you?"

I was not scared enough not to take offense at his words. Crossing my arms, I returned: „May I bring t'er attention, Mr. `olmes, that ye stepped on me plates jus' know? If ya wonders at me yellin', ya won't need ter look any further for a reason!"

„A thousand apologies, Frances." He turned around to face me, and flashed his characteristic smile at me, which took about the quarter of a second altogether. „However, should you feel even the slightest discomfort in view of our surroundings, let me inform you that we presently are in an ossuary. It would seem that the local cemetery quite recently suffered an overflow. These skulls and bones can't be older than a hundred years, at the most."

That was hardly much good to put me at ease. „Why bring `em down `ere, then?"

„That was a common practice in the past century!" He shrugged his shoulders. „There are more places like this to testify to the fact. Aren't you aware that the greater part of the Paris streets owns a basement such as this? Why, the subterranean system is more than 186 miles in total length!"

„No, I wasn't aware. And I seriously hope ya doesn't plan her search the whole of it!" I pulled my scarf tightly around my shoulders. He chuckled.

„Don't worry, Frances. For now, we shall restrict ourselves to this tunnel."

And we continued on our way, though on my part with a queasy feeling, and clandestine glances to the left and right. Holmes was whistling, which caused an eerie echo to resound from the low ceiling. Just in order to provoke me, he had taken the single skull with him, and swung it on his arm like a sportsman testing which trajectory would be best to send the ball on.

It was most irritating.

Finally, I snatched the skull from his hand and put it back onto the stack. „Do ya mind?!"

He seemed mildly amused. „Why, what's the matter Fanny? Are our deceased friends here jangling your nerves?"

„Not so - but _you_ are!" I stopped, and thus made him stop too, for he could not go further without my light. „Could ya please explain what ya means by this conduct? Maybe I ought ter remind ya that this is a grave of sorts, so pray show some respect!"

„I am inconsolable. Pray do, I am prone to forget my manners in charming society."

That was taking the joke a bit far for my taste. I glared at him angrily. „Yes, indeed you do! And pray, why can't you take the least bit of criticism from me? All I ask is that you stop frolicking in the presence of death!"

He laughed quietly, in a way that enraged me further. „Why, this is rather humorous, coming from you. I seem to remember you at the funeral of a person somewhat closer to us than these poor devils here, but respect is not exactly what comes to mind when I think of the way you behaved. Not only did you demean yourself in public, but also me, and not least your foster-father."

I felt the heat rise into my cheeks in spite of the damp coldness in the dungeon. His words would have constituted less of an offense if they had been untrue.

„Well, what do ye expect? Me an' my own, we are scum, or `ave you forgotten? But it don't detain ya from - "

„No", he coldly interrupted. „You would regret it if you were to speak."

I breathed heavily, my hands closed to fists by my sides. My brain was working at high speed, rummaging around for a suitable reply to hurl at him…when suddenly I realized his face had become ashen, and I looked around frantically in search of the reason.

I was not able to look very far, though. The flame of the lantern had dwindled during our argument. There was just time enough to trade an exasperated glance before it went out. We were encompassed by obscurity.

Somewhere next to me, Holmes calmly said: „I would suggest, Frances, that you concentrate your faculties for thought less on spite, and more on the question of how the deuce we are going to get out of here!"

 **Hello again!**

 **Cliffhanger! Will Fanny and Holmes find their way out of the catacomb?**

 **Btw the actual Paris subterranean world is not all that impressive. I visited last summer and was a bit disappointed, at least with the part of it that's open to public…**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	20. Chapter 20

Dead End

„Wand'ring this darksome desert, as my way/ lies through your spacious empire up to light"

Paradise Lost

For a few seconds, silence reigned. I was dumbfounded. How could we not have foreseen this? The first thing to do before we descended into this subterranean corridor would have been replenishment of the petroleum. As it was, we had not paid attention to the dwindling flame during our argument, and now we were without even the faint solace of a dim light.

I was prepared to faint when suddenly, the low hiss of a match on the stones announced the pale ray of light breaking through complete darkness. I gasped with relief, and accepted another match that was pressed into my hand. Thank God for Mr. Holmes' incurable smoking habit! It might possibly save us.

„How many ya got left?" I spluttered.

„Half a box."

He had distinctly accelerated his step, and I had a hard time following on his heel without extinguishing the little speck of light, sheltered by my hollow hand.

„It might only just suffice, but we must save some for the end of the tunnel. I have no preconception of what kind of exit we shall meet, if there is any at all."

A chill crept along my spine that had nothing to do with the cold dampness of this nether world. I thought of the barricaded back door we had overcome so as to enter the church. What if the entrance to St. Lazare had been sealed with equal thoroughness? And what if, finding the baptismal font removed in the morning, somebody would judge it best to push it back into place, and be forever silent?

I drew my shoulder blades together. It would be useless to pester Holmes with my misgivings. He would berate me for my cowardly demeanour, and possibly tell me I was seeing ghosts.

„Ouch!" The match had burned down to my finger, scorching the skin, and I dropped it to the ground. However, Holmes did not stop to hand me another one. He apparently tried to economize both on matches and on time, and there was nothing left for me to do but to cling to his sleeve like a frightened child, and to try not to stumble on the uneven ground. We continued for another two miles or so, utterly silent.

Every other minute, Holmes would stop to reach into his match box and light another one. The moment came, however, when he withdrew his hand, and thrust the box back into his pocket.

„We must save the rest. There is no other way but to feel along the wall. Let's just hope we're not too far from the end of the tunnel."

„But, Mr. `olmes…."

„Very sorry Frances, but I have to ask you to stand by the other side of the tunnel and do the same."

„Awright…"

I was loath to let go off his sleeve. Who knew whether in this pitch-dark hell I would ever be able to find him again? But it was no use. I stood by the opposite wall, and very hesitatingly laid my hands on the stacks of human bones. They insecurely slid over the uneven surface of the gruesome array, and I was startled almost to death when under my anxious grip, some of the bones came loose and the whole section of the stack gave in. A loud clatter on the cobble stone ground told Holmes of my mishap, but to my relief he refrained from comment. Placing my feet gingerly between the scattered bone fragments, I slowly, very slowly moved along the wall. It seemed like I was making no way at all, but it was impossible to tell for sure without the benefit of eyesight. From time to time, I nervously called out for Holmes, who, I was afraid, had long left me behind, but each time, a reassuring grunt told me he was still there, and still annoyed with my cowardice.

Then, finally, I heard that om his side of the tunnel, also bones were coming loose, and he seemed to traipse over the debris, moving away from the wall.

„Holmes, what…?"

„Hush! I think this is the end, Fanny. The end of the tunnel. Take another few steps. Here, here. Can you feel this? It is another wall - a third wall."

„This is a dead end…" I wiped my palms across the brickwork like a blind woman. „There is no way out!"

„Compose yourself. There must be."

Another match rasped across the stone, and with an irrational sense of safety, I recognized the contours of his face in the half-light. „If we had something to burn that would not produce too much smoke, that might be of some help", he muttered, running his eyes up and down the part of wall that was more or less visible to him.

My hands mechanically delved into my pockets. They met with a pocket-size Shakespeare edition - one of Uncle John's presents. But he would understand. Wordlessly, I gave it to Holmes, and equally without words, he put the match to the pages of the small book, and by the light of the primitive torch quickly surveyed our surroundings. When he craned his neck to look at the ceiling, I did the same….and spied a wooden square above our heads that had been let into the stone. Very well, then, the exit was of the same nature as the entrance. However, one important part of it was missing: There were no steps, nor even a ladder!

Holmes fingers had also come dangerously close to the flames, and he let the book drop, which hit the ground and fell apart quickly into a smoldering pile of ashes. But by the fading light, we both had been able to see one last thing: A chain had been put on the hatch cross-wise, a chain secured with a large padlock.

Holmes groaned. Having witnessed how deftly he had opened the back door of the vestry with my hatpin, it had to be frustrating for him to see the small obstacle on the ceiling, were it was just out of reach for him. I was also out of my depth. Of course, he could make a ladder for me easily, but the other way round would hardly be so easy, and I had never picked a lock before in my life!

Still, there seemed to be no other way. I lit one of our remaining matches, and allowed him to show me the movement of the hand that was required of me to perform with my already hard-used pin. I nodded my understanding, though less than confident, and he lowered himself down on one knee and folded his hands for me to step on.

I reached out my arms, and clawed into the chain as soon as I could get hold of it. A third hand would be extremely useful, I pondered, holding the match with one hand and clutching the chain with the other.

„Can't ya lift me any higher?"

He cursed somewhere in the region of my knees, and I stretched and brought the tip of the pin into the padlock just as the match extinguished. I let it drop, I had no capacities to hold it, anyway. So without the least light to see by, I tried to execute the turn of the wrist and the tilt of the fingers Holmes had quickly taught me. But it failed, and when I tried again, it failed once more.

„Well, Frances? Hurry up, I can't hold you for much longer!"

„I'm doing me best, Mr. `olmes!„ I returned, half angry, half frightened. Why had my education not included the picking of locks? Uncle John knew well how important a skill that was! But then, he could not have foreseen that I would replace him.

„It's no use. I must lower you down."

„No, no, Mr. `olmes…wait…"

Had I got the hang of it? I was just turning - slowly turning the lock - when he set about to let me down. I squealed, holding on to the thick chain.

„No, no, no, hold on - hold on - !"

„No I have to let you down - I - no, Frances -„

Feeling the support vanish under my foot, I started kicking in the thin air like a panicking horse for a second, when suddenly the lock snapped, my hand let go and I fell right into his arms, a fraction or so before I would have hit the ground.

„You fool!" I snapped as soon as I had air in my lungs again. „`ow could ya `ave let go when I told you I was nearly done? Why, I could of broken me neck!"

„So you would, If I hadn't prevented it!" He bit back, and I tried to disentangle our limbs and get out of his arms with as much dignity as possible.

The scratching sound of the match, by now familiar, preceded another glimpse of light. Holmes struggled to his feet, matchbox in hand. „That's our last - „ he remarked, and fell silent when he glanced up at the ceiling, from whence the chains dangled, the padlock hanging from one of the ends. „Why, you made it, Frances!"

„Of course I did! I told you I was jus` makin` it when ye - but set fire to the matchbox, its going out!"

He did as I told him, and flung out last match, black and useless, into the darkness. There was no time to be lost now.

„Hold it", he told me, extending his arm toward me. I gingerly took the burning little box by one of its corners, removing my fingers as much as possible from the flame.

Holmes leaped for the opening above our heads, caught two of the ends of chain and somehow reached the wooden hatch pushing it open before he dropped back onto his feet. The dim light of very early morning hailed from the square hole…but to us in our complete darkness, it was better than sunshine!

I laughed with joy and surprise, and would have hugged Holmes if - we—he had not been Holmes. Dropping the coal black little piece of cardboard the match box had turned into, I beamed at him, our earlier disputes forgotten.

„Are ya ready ter lift me up again?"

„I don't think it necessary." He took another leap at the hatch, and, his fingers curled around the edge in an iron grip, pulled himself up in one move. Before I could worry that he was leaving me behind, he stretched out his arms, and, a little out of breath, motioned me to make an effort.

I am not good at jumping, but I managed to get hold of one of his hands, and he lifted me high enough so I could reach the edge with the other. From here, he could pull me up easily, and I stood next to him, in a church once again.

I would have liked to recover my breath and become aware of my surroundings, only dimly perceived, but Holmes took me by the shoulders.

„Quickly now, the morning mass is soon to begin. We must disappear before the deacon comes in to sweep the floor. Come - come!"

I could only stumble across the stone flagged floor after him. All of a sudden, I realized how deadly tired I was. I could not even care any more whether we would be caught. We crossed the nave, and Holmes cautiously opened the church door a little to see whether anybody was outside. When this was apparently not so, we slipped out like so many mice, and ran to vanish into the labyrinth of small alleys surrounding St. Lazare. What happened next, I don't really remember. I think Holmes hailed a cab, and we must have got in, for I have a blurred recollection of resting against leathern upholstery, and nodding off as we rattled further and further away.

oooOOOooo

He was thinking; thinking again. The ungentle stutter of the heavy carriage on the bumpy roads shook the sleeping girl through and through, but she did not wake up. How tired she had to be.

He had had word from Mrs. Hudson again. The unknown neighbors had not been back at the old farmhouse. They had an odd rhythm visiting there. Last time when, seven years ago, his life had burst into pieces. Again now, around the time of his unforeseen departure for France.

Only how unforeseen had it been?

Who were Madame Zhao's abducters?

Where was the King's Orb now?

In the _Times_ , he had recently read of the death of a certain Lorenzo Burini, of late acquaintance. Some lesser art gallery had organized an exhibition to show a post-mortem collection of his works. But on examination of the deceased artists estate, it had been established there had been burglary; some of his paintings were missing.

Burglary had also taken place at the mansion of Sir George Lewis, a patron of the late Mr. Burini. Where had the pictures gone?

He mechanically took out a cigarette and reached for his matches, realizing he had none. He needed tobacco to keep his brains going. How did things fit together?

These were deep waters. He took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth, and watched the girl, whose locks were tumbling over her shoulder and onto the leather seats. Was it right to draw her into this business? There might be danger in hot for her, and it had not really to do with her, after all.

Or had it?

Oh, he could not fathom what was at the bottom of things at the moment. But the moment of cognizance would come, it most always did. Holmes raised his hand to rap at the roof of the cab, so as to show the driver they had arrived.

Frances was not to be woken, but he had never allowed decorum to hinder his march, and they had been through enough together in the last 48 hours to make such a liberty as lifting her out of the cab seem a trifle. Her head lolled against his chest as he carried her up the stairs. Upon arrival in Madame Zhao's apartment, he lowered her onto a low, bed-like structure in a small separate room. She muttered in her sleep, her white hand falling onto the cushions limp as a leaf. But she did not stir as he went out of the room on tip toe, and left the flat noiseless.

 **Hey ho!**

 **Another dead end, but have patience! Some criminal cases are slow to come to a conclusion, and this is a particularly tricky one for our heroes!**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	21. Chapter 21

**The cabman's story**

 **„** **I from the influence of thy looks receive/ access in every virtue, in thy sight/more wise, more watchful, stronger, if need were/ of outward strength"**

 **Paradise Lost**

He had replenished his stock of matches and smoked three full pipes before she stirred behind the room partitioner. He allowed her all the time she wanted for rummaging around, while he finished his smoke. When finally she turned up, hair unruly and hand pressed against into an aching nape, he turned away, leaving her privacy in case she wanted it.

"I brought you some breakfast from the confectioner's", he remarked by way of explanation, and waved his unoccupied hand into the direction of Madame Zhao's little kitchen.

„Thank you." Frances' voice was quiet and gruff, she was not quite awake yet. She disappeared, and he turned around in his seat again.

„I brought coffee as well", he called when he could hear the sound of boiling water. „Your tea-drinking friend does not share my breakfast preferences."

Her answer was muffled by the piping of the kettle, and a moment later, the smell of coffee filled the flat. He decided Frances had enjoyed enough privacy for once, and knocked out his pipe to join her in the kitchen. She stood by the table, peeling croissants and chocolate buns out of brown wrapping paper to put them on a large plate of rough eastern pottery. Lack of sleep seemed to render her monosyllabic, but he did not mind that. Pouring out the coffee, he maintained silence, and while she munched her _pain au chocolat_ , he unfolded the newspaper he had bought on his way.

„Mr. Holmes", he finally heard her beyond the pages, and he lowered them to look across the table. „We again entirely wasted our time yesterday. Didn't we?"

He considered that, while she brushed the crumbs from her lap and rubbed her fingers with a napkin. „I mean, we established that the subterranean passage can still be used, and that the old church of St. Lazare was replaced with a new house of prayer, which might be very interesting to visitors on a tour of medieval Paris. To our undertakin, `owever…"

„We may not have found much in a positive sense, that I concede. But at least we made more or less certain the passage was not used as a hiding place, and probably has not been entered by anyone on years. That is something gained."

„Yeah, but we are not one step further in our investigation!" She complained.

He felt his facial muscles shiver at the sound of her words, and tried to submit them to his control again. When had the case of the missing Orb become `our investigation`? What did Frances presume was her part in it?

„Shouldn't you actually be at work at this hour?"

„No." She crossed her arms, and stretched out her legs, which made her slide down a little in her seat. „When Madame needs me at the workshop on Sundays, it is agreed I can taike off the following Monday instead."

He sighed softly. A strong point in Watson as a companion had been his willingness to vanish if he felt superfluous. With Frances, he felt this distinctly, it would not be so easy.

„So. You have all day to devote to - to our investigation. How do you suggest to make use of it?"

She shook he unruly hair, so it fell back over her shoulders, and gathered it to twist into a rage knot, which, since she did not have a band to tie it with, seemed rather pointless. „Well, I do not know yet. But one fink is for sure. Before we run off again ter follow up loose ends, we should use our loaves ter maike sure it'll be worth while. Contemplation is better than taikin' action helter-skelter."

He raised an appreciative eyebrow. She proved to be a promising disciple, after all. „Where do you think we should start, then?"

„I am not sure". She lower her chin into her hand, and softly bit into the tips of her fingers. „But one fink irks me. Ya remembers, when we were at the Montmartre café and talked about Madame's appearance in the tea shop?"

„Well, what about it?"

„You asked me why she would taike a cab for such short distances as the café or the tea shop, and I told ya she wan't a good walker."

„So?"

„Well, that's the fink! She wan't a good walker, but as a rule, she could cover these distances on foot. I remember now that each time I accompanied her to either place, we went on foot."

He shrugged. „The explanation is an easy one. She knew she was being followed, and felt more secure in a cab. You said she even had one driver she did call often, and probably could trust a little. It would make sense she would call him in order to escape from home in his cab."

„Yes, but that's exactly where finks stop maikin' sense!" She inclined toward him over the table in her excitement. „At `er age, it is a safer bet ter escape a follower by cab, even if the follower is also in a cab, than on foot. I taike into consideration `er cleverness, and we know she succeeded, using the tea shop's back door ter disappear. But why did she even do that? Would not the chances of been better ter escape by cab, to some plaice far away from Montmarte, where she could get off the car and vanish in the crowd?"

„I'm not sure. I'm not sure there at all, Frances." He shook his head thoughtfully. „The way she did it was very effective. With the cab waiting outside, she had managed to trick the men. Probably she was even carrying the orb on her person, trying to get it to some place of safety. If the men knew or suspected this, they would have expected her to fly, to leave the town, maybe the country. They would not expect her to try and disappear in the middle of Montmartre. But this was exactly what she did, and they were baffled. No Frances - „ he shook his head again. „No, I don't think I agree with you."

„Where could she go to in Montmartre? There was nothing for her to do but to return to her flat, where it is more than probable they chime ter get `er. The whole course of action ain't clear to me. Why didn't she ask `er cabbie ter drive `er to the countryside, where she might lay low? Why didn't she at least ask `im ter taike `er to a train station?"

„Probably because a train station would be the first place to come to the mind of her followers? They would have known where to chase after her, even if they lost her cab - to the Gare du Nord, to the Gare de l'Est, to - „

He gasped, and the words in his mind failed to be delivered by speech. However, that was unnecessary. Frances froze for a second, then she called out: „ - to the trainstation St. Lazare! Oh what idiots have we been, not ter fink o` that!"

oooOOOooo

It was a chill day, and we both had our fists buried in our pockets as we trudged, side by side, down the street.

„I still fink we should go to the station first!" I exclaimed, shoving open the door to the cab service bureau with my elbow. „What can a common driver possibly `aver ter tell us?"

„Frances, wasn't it youth told me an hour ago it was useless to take hot-headed action? Pray what would it avail us to go to St. Lazare? It is a train station, we both know what they look like."

We ceased quarreling, for the man at the counter window was raising his head to watch us. Holmes aimed at him directly. „Good morning. We would like to engage the services of a certain cabby. Unfortunately, we know neither his name, nor the number of his cab, we only know he is a regular at Rue Lombard No. 16a."

The man behind the counter raised his eyebrows. „That is a most unusual request, Monsieur - ?"

„Sherlock Holmes", he promptly replied, and the expression on the man's face changed. Obviously, the name meant something to him, for a message was dispatched without further ado. We were bidden to wait in the ante-room until a plump, young man arrived, dressed in a cabman's outfit.

„Monsieur?" He insecurely turned his round cab in his chubby hands, not quite sure what was expected from him.

I forestalled Holmes, rising from the bench we had sat on. „Are you not the cabbie what used ter come for to pick up Madame Zhao from `er `ouse?"

„That's right, Mademoiselle." He nodded his affirmation, maybe he even remembered seeing me with Madame sometime, for he had no reservations with me. With Holmes, it was a different question entirely.

„I will not speak with the police, I won't!" He spluttered, as soon as my companion had explained the nature of our business. „I have done nothing, seen nothing, heard nothing!"

„Calm yourself!" I entreated the man. „We `ave nowt ter do wit the police. We are just friends of Madame, and very worried about `er. But pray you, let us go somewhere we can talk undisturbed. Would you like a glass of beer? `ave you `ad luncheon?"

Monsieur Romain - for that was the cabman's name - had had none. After some argumentation to and fro, we succeeded in persuading him to accompany us to a nearby inn, where the cabbies were wont to take their meals. He was a hungry as any man of his wearisome occupation, but his distrust was not entirely gone, and was to be seen in the glances he directed at us across the brim of his ale glass.

„So, what do you want with me?" He finally asked, cutting his mutton into rough stripes. „I told you already I know not what happened to the poor woman. It is only today that I hear she's missing."

„We believe you", Holmes assured him suavely. „Our interest lies with a certain excursion Madame took with you, a fortnight ago? Can you remember it? You drove her to a tea shop in Montmartre and waited outside. Shortly after your arrival there, some men entered the shop, and came out again after a little while. However, Madame did not return, and after some time, you drove away."

„How d'you know that?" Romain wanted to know, suspicion blatant now in his guarded tones.

„The lady in the shop told us that much", I returned. „Monsieur, we are afraid these men were after a certain object, then in Madame's keeping. We think it possible that violence was done to her because of this object, that maybe she came to harm. Now if you could tell us anyfink that you can remember from this day, it might jus' help us to find out what happened…and where Madame has been brought to."

He hemmed and hawed a little. I realized Holmes was loosing patience with him, but lightly raised one hand to restrain him. Eventually, Romain turned to me and said: „Can you promise? No police?"

I blinked. Only a few days ago, Holmes had had an equally hard time, trying to persuade me to give up my knowledge. Had Madame made the cabman promise, too? Why had she been so afraid of the police? Surely, there must be a reason for that.

„Monsieur Romain." I tried to look my most confidential. „You have my word on it."

„Alright then." He swallowed hard, and, talking to me rather than to Holmes, quickly related: „It was on that day that you mentioned - that queer day. I had picked her up upon her calling, as I did often, you know that, Mademoiselle. But I was surprised when she asked me to drive to the tea shop at top speed, I can tell you! A racing start for a two minutes drive? Why did she not just walk there?"

My response was clearly expected here, so I nodded my agreement. „A very strange request, that."

„I did as I was bidden, however", the cabman resumed his narrative. „I drove to the tea shop at break-neck speed, and as soon as we came to a halt, madame beckoned me down from my seat and to her window. She - handed me something."

„Something - what?" Holmes broke in, but I hushed him.

„I do not know. A parcel. Something round, wrapped in paper. Size of an apple. She gave it to me, with instructions that I should hide it on my person and wait for her a while. I was to remain calm and stay in my seat, whatever happened. If she did not return, I should drive to the train station - St. Lazare. There, I should leave the parcel in one of the lockers, and keep the key for her. On no condition was I to talk to the police."

Holmes and I exchanged a glance, breathless. Monsieur Romain shrugged.

„It sounds like a madwoman's talk, doesn't it? I did what she told me to do, though. I climbed back into my seat, parcel beneath my coat, as she went into the shop. A minute later, some men arrived in another cab. They had a ruffianly sort of look, and I didn't like it a bit when they stormed into the shop! But Madame had told me to remain where I was, and so I did."

„What happened then?"

„Well, they made some noise in there, but they came out again soon enough. I waited until I was sure Madame would not come back. Then I drove."

„…to St. Lazare?"

„Aye. I hid the parcel in the locker - No. 115 it was - and there it still is, as far as I know."

Holmes leaned back in his chair, exhaling hard as was his habit when particularly satisfied. He watched with utter satisfaction how a couple of coins changed hands, and, after a little more debate, a small, sliver key was finally forwarded and placed in my outstretched palm.

 **Hullo!**

 **So…Is the parcel still in place, and will it contain what they think it contains? What further hints to the solution of the mystery can it possibly provide?**

 **We shall see!**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	22. Chapter 22

**Locker Number 115**

 **„** **Late fall'n himself from heav´n, is plotting now/the fall of others from like state of bliss/ by violence, no, for that shall be withstood/ but by deceit and lies"**

 **Paradise Lost**

The arms of the big clock at St. Lazare both pointed at the number „3" when we dashed into the concourse, Holmes first and I with a little delay, hands pressed into both my sides. I had a stitch and regretted having handed the small silver key over to him - had I insisted on keeping it, he would no doubt have shown some more regard for our difference in speed. But there was no time now to feel vexed. So I wrung a final jog from my exhausted body that brought me level with him again, and soon, we were standing in front of a row of lockers, each inscribed with a three-figure number.

Holmes rushed down the row like a staghound, counting under his breath. „118….117…116…"

He stopped abruptly to thrust the key into the lock of number 115.

Breathing heavily, I raised myself onto the tips of my toes so as to be able peer past him into the opening of the deep locker. There, in the back of a space that was intended to accommodate large valises, I could glimpse at some vaguely outlined object. It looked like a small pile of rags, or a tattered pouch.

Holmes' arm quickly dived into the aperture, brining the object to light: It was a bundle, made of brown wrapping paper, about the size of an apple, just as the cabbie had said. We traded a significant glance.

„Holmes…!"

„Wait." He paused to take a look around and ensure we were not being watched. Then, we shifted into an ill-lit corner, and with a deft movement, Holmes removed part of the wrapping. The clear, glassy shine of precious stones blinked beneath our hands.

„Goodness me!" I whispered, reverentially. But my eyesight was bereft of the beautiful object within the moment: Holmes tucked it in with the paper again, and shoved it into the pocket of his coat.

„That's it , Mr. Holmes!" I spluttered in my excitement, „that is the King's Orb! I cannot believe we found it!"

„SHH!" He laid a finger over his lips, still scanning his surroundings with idiosyncratic alertness. „Don't name it. It isn't safe yet. We must hand it over to M. Simon of the Sûrété as soon as possible. Come along!"

„Awright…." I trudged after him, a little disappointed I had not been allowed to look at the gem to my heart's content. On a rational level, I knew Holmes was right to insist we bring it to the police at once, on the other hand…I had had a hand in recovering it. Surely he ought not to forget that!

Thus, I maintained a sullen silence, keeping behind him on our way out of the station and into the general direction of the river Seine. The Sûrété, now that I had confided all I had been trying to conceal to Holmes, had lost its power to scare me, and yet I was not too keen to go there again. Unknowingly, I slowed down as we walked along the river on the promenade. He turned around without stopping, ever impatient and eager to fulfill his task.

„What's the meaning of this dawdling, Fanny? You did not get a footsore, did you?"

„No", I conceeded, disgruntled. „It is jus' that I don't cherish being hurried along. If you feel you are better off by yerseln, ya should jus' say so, an' rid yerseln o' me."

„Fanny!" He turned around with fluttering coat tails, and took me by the shoulders with a hearty grasp that was totally unexpected. „How can you say so? You have been a brick these past hours! I do in all sincerity not know what I would have done without you. Probably, I would have had to slip into a cabman's guise to get this fellow's confidence!"

„Oh…well…thank ya!" I replied, rather surprised by the cordiality and good humour that came with our success. „I…That was nofink. _You_ did very well, pointing out the necessity ter seek out the man and talk wiv him!"

His keen eyes lit up with the compliment, and we continued, a little slower, but visibly elated. Holmes even started twirling his cane, thus creating a sphere around us where nobody else would dare to walk. He whistled the _Marseillaise_.

I turned my face away and toward the river, so he should not see me smiling. „I say! `opefully, all this means that the constant calling of the police at my plaice of work will find an end. Madame is quite unnerved by `em."

„I can understand. But I agree, this should be over now. As for the remaining question of what happened to Madame Zhao, you have already told them what you know. There is nothing more you can do to set them on the right trail."

„Le's hope so!" I turned my head back to look at him. „In any event, I'd be grateful if André Dulage did not make further appearances in the boutique. The girls are beginning to snigger behind our backs."

„They…? Oh!" He nodded his appreciation. „Well, this is human nature, Fanny. The fact that two young people are suddenly seeing each other a lot seems to indicate -„

„I know what it seems to indicate! But we are not `seeing each other`; he pesters me with questions that appertain to an abduction! I fail ter see even a hint of romance under such circumstances. Foolish girls!" I snapped angrily, but he tried to appease me.

„You mustn't blame them. With young women occupied with rather tedious tasks all day, a handsome man like Monsieur Dulage in my experience is apt to stimulate the imagination."

„You fink him handsome, then?" I considered that.

„He is what would commonly be subsumed under this description. He has a figure, a pleasant face, and there is still hair aplenty on his head", Holmes returned with a matter-of-fact sound that seemed irrefragable.

I laughed out. „That may be so, but he is rather shy, and surely, that is not to everybody's taste. Same fink goes for `is pigeon-toed walking."

The swirling cane came to a sudden halt. Holmes stopped, staring ahead of us as if there were something to be seen there, something beyond the river, the steam barques and the pedestrians. He remained like this for maybe five seconds, then he turned toward me sharply.

„He walks pidgeon-toed? Dulage walks pidgeon-toed?"

„Ya knows he does", I returned, slightly irritated by his erratic demeanour. „Ya must `ave noticed it before."

„Not as such, no…." He muttered, and his gaze drifted away again, toward the horizon.

I suffered it for another ten seconds, then I set my arms akimbo. „Mr. `olmes, if ya feels the lack o' sleep upon ye, `ere is not the plaice to maike amends. I am afraid we are taikin' up quite a lot of space `ere. What now? Are we goin' to the Sûrété, or not?"

He was back before I had finished talking, and blinked a couple of times, as if, indeed, he had just woken from profound sleep. „No - no Frances, we are not."

He straightened himself, and set in motion again. „Come on."

„What - Mr. `olmes - what in blazes?" My question whether we would be going to the Sûrété had first and foremost been a rhetorical one, and his decision not to was confusing me considerably. „Where are we goin' then?"

„We will lock up the artifact for now", he stated firmly, in a tone that made it clear my opinion was not desired. „There is a safe in my hotel room. It should be secure enough in there tonight. And tomorrow, we shall see."

„What?! Why?" I felt completely shut out, and that angered me to a degree where all our previous good comradeship crepitated. „Wha, all `o a sudden?"

„Just - _come_ , Frances!" He urged me, but I vividly shook my head.

„To yer `otel? No, Mr. `olmes. There's quite many circumstances maikin` me loth to go there, all of which you seems ter `ave completely forgotten."

„Fanny - „ he stopped, gripping his forehead with one bony hand. „I can't - I can't have discussion now! If you are afraid of what a scandal-mongering little concierge may think, perhaps there is more bourgeois narrowness in you than I would have credited you with. Yes, I said bourgeois! Don't bring up your oh-so-proletarian origins, pray! You were done with that a long time ago. Speaking plainly, what you have become is a lady respectable enough to drive one up the wall, with your pettifogging concerns!"

I gasped. It had been a long time since somebody had felt authorized to speak to me in that tone. „How can you say such a fink? Remember I broke into a church with you last night, and walked through a blasted dungeon with you! Do I really deserve such haranguing?"

He gave a dismissive gesture. „Do what you will. I must see to the security of a national heirloom, and have no time to quarrel with you. Maybe I had been hasty in thinking you could provide succor. Maybe I am really better off by myself, after all!"

And he left me there, standing by the riverside, biting back tears as I watched his back melt into the crowd and finally disappear.

oooOOOooo

My return to my flat was gloomy and cheerless. The atmosphere, due to the fact that I had not been home in two days, was stuffy, but at the same time freezing cold. Nobody had seen to the airing or heating. I sat down on my bed, acutely aware of the newly repaired blind in the window above my head.

Staring ahead of myself numbly, I detected that I had a letter, there on the door mat. Of course, there had been nobody home to pick up the post, either. I felt heavy, and it seemed hard to decide whether to start the oven first, or to open the window, or to pick up that letter. Everything appeared equally difficult to perform in my current state of inertia.

For a moment, I wondered whether my Uncle John had ever been exposed to this sort of treatment, and whether it had made him feel equally incapable and superfluous. It was quite possible….Holmes had never been famous for his sympathy, and uncle John reportedly had made many blunders in his time. But then of course, the situations were not comparable. _He_ had not been expected to impersonate, to replace somebody irrevocably gone, which I felt I was.

But there was no use in crying over spilt milk. Being of a practical turn, I decided to push my dark musings aside. I would either freeze to death or suffocate if I just continued sitting here, and that would not do. My fingers stiff with the cold, I put some coal briquets into my small stove and lit them with a match and an old gazette. Next, I opened the window. The cold draught enlivened my small fire, and the flames began to dance. I closed the hatch, filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. Remained that letter on my door mat.

I bent down half-heartedly to get it, expecting some bill or other. But the sender indicated on the envelope made my breath hitch with joy - it was from Uncle Jonathan! I all but ripped the letter open. No conundrums, no mysteries, no melodrama: His curt, but affectionate writing was what I needed now!

My dear little Fanny!

I was glad to hear about your and your life in Paris, about the friends you made and the fun you have. And already there is a suitor! Forgive me, I still think of you as a little girlie sitting on my knee. Soon, you will be engaged to some fortunate man, and I won't be able to be there! It is too bad.

But if that marriage business can wait a little (you are, after all, very young still!) I really think you should come and join your old Uncle on the reef! Australia is a splendid place and very civilized today. Many people are making a fortune on the gold fields! It is not at all what it used to be. You ought to come to Brisbane and bring the unfortunate ladies there Parisian fashion styles! It would give them something to do, as well as provide an opportunity to spend their gold.

But of course, you don't want to leave such a jolly place, and there are your friends to consider. Well, well! I still hope we can see each other again some day not too far in the future. For myself, you need not to be worried. When on Papua, I hardly ever get down from my ship, on even when I do, I don't leave Port Moresby, which is a wretched enough place, but not at all dangerous.

The sun is particularly brilliant today and from where I sit, I can see some flying fish out in the water. I didn't find more starfish, but if I do, I'll send you one with my next.

With all my love,

Your Uncle Jonathan

I smiled into the page, besmeared with the imprints of several dirty thumbs as it was, and would have continued doing so, when the kettle started to pipe. My head jerked up, and I swiftly took it from the stove.

oooOOOooo

Ling Zhao could not go on. She felt it, although they had fed her back to a condition where her body would be able to last for a considerable time. But the same was not true for her mind. Abandoning physical cruelties, they had settled for torturing that, and it was worse, worse, worse. She cried out in desperate frustration when the men told her in a low, almost confidential tone what had happened to her relatives - when a part of her rationality told her that they were safe, far away in Canton, out of the enemy's reach.

Only, how could she be sure? How? How?

She could not recite a sutra uninterrupted anymore, neither aloud not in her thoughts. They were there, always. They invaded her conscious, her sub-conscious even, painting disturbing scenes in soft tones. She was shown photographs, old ones, she knew it was not impossible to get at them in Paris. For every family member in the pictures, they had a story ready, and they knew the details. They undermined her certainty step by step, and when she crumbled, when she could not take it any longer, the most painful thing was the knowledge they were telling lies; probably just telling lies.

But a human being can take only so much, and Ling Zhao sensed it when she fell forward onto her face, giving up, giving in, her nose only inches from the tips of the patent leather shoes. The high falsetto voice - she had heard it only a few times - rang out, and made her hair stand on end.

„Well, Madame Zhao? Where is the KIng's Orb?"

She sobbed, sobbed her defeat right into the ground.

„Ah! But I can't hear you, Madame Zhao", the high, cold voice admonished her.

With what strength remained, she raised her face, wet and dirty, an inch or two from the ground.

„Francoise - the girl - she has it!"

 **Hi guys!**

 **Aha! Now we are getting somewhere. The gem has been found. And Fanny is clearly in danger. And so, by the way, is Madame Zhao! We can imagine what would happen to her, should the Orb fall into the hands of the fiend…argh.**

 **Ok. Next chapter will see a little bit of action, maybe a little bit of further development, too. Maybe even a bit of a surprise, unless my plot twists are too transparent ;-)**

 **Whatever! See you next time!**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	23. Chapter 23

**Almost perfect likeness**

 **„** **Next, to the Son/ Destined restorer of mankind, by whom/ New heav´n and earth shall to the ages rise/ or down from heav´n descend"**

 **Paradise Lost**

He closed the door of the safe and turned the small wheel a couple of times, setting it to a random combination only he could know. Then he took a step back and peered at the safe sternly, as if it were possible to test its reliability this way. Well, well! This was a first class hotel, and the quality of its safety measures hopefully was also first-rate. Still, he felt he could not leave the place with a clear conscience. When had he become so fretful?

Marching up and down the room, hands folded on his back, he tried to collect his thoughts. What was to be done with the gem? It surely could not remain here forever. What if his darkest suspicions should be confirmed? Maybe it would be better to get it out of the country.

However, there still was the missing woman to consider. His decision not to go to the Police had made certain of one thing: The recovery of the Orb would not become public knowledge, and thus the enemy would probably continue looking for it, which might buy Madame Zhao some time before she would be - well - disposed of. Always provided she was still alive.

Also, Fanny had asked him not to vanish again without notice. He stopped to grip the backrest of a gilded chair, gritting his teeth together. What an ugly business was this! He already regretted the insults he has thoughtlessly aimed at her earlier - in a hurry, under stress, certainly, but still. It was true, he resented her being caught up in social norms and bound to abide by them - but he resented this in Watson too, and could not remember ever having addressed this topic quite so acerbically with him.

How much easier had all of this been with Kitty!

No.

He forbade himself this thought. It was not fair to compare the two women. More than that, it was unwholesome. It would have to stop.

In frustration, he dug his hand into his hair. He would go mad if he remained in this room, with the sole companionship of a safe that contained a treasure, and a bed that contained guilty reminiscences. If he could not bring himself to leave the hotel, for heaven's sake, then at least he would go downstairs to take a cup of coffee. It might do him some good, the day had drained him of resources; mentally and physically.

oooOOOooo

I poured the water from the kettle, still piping weakly, into the tea pot. I would sit down for a bit and re-read Uncle Jonathan's letter over a cup of - yes, of what?

Searchingly, I browsed the row of large glasses containing tea leaves on my counter. There was Madame's disgusting green, and some Oolong, some Hongcha, and some Jasmin, but that was nearly finished. I lifted the glass to the light to see what was left - surely not enough for a whole pot of tea, unless it should be watery.

Setting it down again and at the same time reaching for the Hongcha, I made a clumsy movement with my elbow, touching the outermost glass on the counter. It rocked precariously - and ere I could reach out to stabilize it, the glass went over the edge and broke on the kitchen floor!

I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that were any help against the pandemonium of bursting glass. How could I have been so awkward! I had broken the glass with madame's tea, one of the remaining keepsakes I had of her! Slowly opening my eyes again, I berated myself and squatted down to take a look at the mess I had created. Then I saw it.

My mouth fell open. Slowly, like in a dream, I reached out my hand to brush aside a few dried, crumpled green tea leaves, taking extra care not to cut myself on the shards. Amongst them, disguised only by a thin layer of tea, there lay a round, glittering object, with a pearl-studded band around it, and a slightly dented cross on top!

It was impossible, and yet, there it was: The King's Orb. I had recovered it for the second time in a day.

oooOOOooo

He approached the parlor via the vestibule, not very busy at this time of day, when people had already checked out, and new arrivals had mostly been registered and led up to their rooms. The concierge raised two fingers to his cap and gave him an insinuating smile - he really was a most impertinent fellow! In retaliation, Holmes let his gaze languidly hover over the hip pocket where he knew the man was keeping a flask of absinth against regulations.

He stopped grinning and averted his eyes immediately.

With a firm step, Holmes entered the parlor and allowed the waiter to allot a table to him - the one by the window, which he and Félix Faure had occupied last week. He lowered himself into the seat, ordered a cup of coffee and took out his cigarette case. Taking a first draught, he was about to sigh contentedly …when the sound of his own name, uttered a little loudly for this oasis of calm, made him jump like a horse on edge. He brushed cigarette ash from his thigh, and turned around in a huff.

„Monsieur `olmes - why, I knew it `ad to be you, Mr. `olmes! I could not but recognize it from the formatiooon of your back of `ead…."

„Monsieur Bertillon", Holmes returned unnerved, and felt compelled to rise and extend his hand. „Enjoying retirement, I hope?"

„Well it iis a leetle boring, I must confess, Mr. `olmes…especially when I `ear what exciting cases my younger colleagues `ave on their `ands these days!"

He shook hands with Holmes cordially, winking all the while to demonstrate he was in on the secret. As much respect as Holmes certainly had harbored for the detective in earlier years, right now he was slightly unnerved to have met him. Where had the man dropped from, now of all times?!

„But fortunatelee, Paris has many things to offer for a man with too much time at his disposal…especiallee if he be of a scientific turn!"

„I am sure. Has the Académie Francaise offered you membership, to prescribe to people the use of their mother tongue?" He returned waspishly, wondering at the same time why he was continuously poleaxing people today. However, it was not easy to disgruntle a man of Bertillon's merry disposition. Even now, he simply laughed as if at a good joke.

„No, no, Mr. `olmes, I am of course speaking of the natural sciences! There iis a brilliant course of lectures at the Sorbonne this week, as no doubt you `ave `eard!"

„I have not", he admitted without real interest. „What is the topic?"

„Human nature. Psychology, Phrenology, social hygiene, and such. I `ave myself contributed with a leetle speech on my method of body indexing. I can remember `ow this subject used to fascinate you, Mr. `olmes! Why don't you accompanie me to today's lecture? Entrance will begin at six."

„Why…I…." This was getting too bothersome. Under what pretext could he get rid of Bertillon? Maybe he ought to invent some appointment, some investigatory task? But what if he should arouse the bumbling old busybody's interest, Holmes blasphemously thought.

„I see you `esitate, Mr. `olmes…but you won't if I tell you the issue to be treated today. The great Galton has come in person to speak about the most modern, the most promising of new sciences! I am talking, of course, about eugenics. You see, I `ave not forgotten the old days, Mr. `olmes! I remember as if it were yesterday, `ow much you were immersed in the subject matter even then, always a`ead of your time…"

Bertillon talked on rapturously, completely unaware his conversational partner had suddenly blanched. He waved his hands to emphasize points, he flicked his fingers against the other man's shirt front, he clapped his shoulders laughing with the delight of elaborating on scientific findings.

„…and then, with the developments future may bring, how easy could it become for man and woman to have just the child they wished for, eh, Mr. `olmes? Currently, there seem to be too manie factors, too manie variables for certain calculation, you might say. Hah! There is no problem that cannot be solved in time, if science applies itself to it. Take the hereditary disposition: If you were to choose the parents according to certain criteria, say, intelligence, you could make prettie certain of a positive outcome in terms of the progeny's mental capacities. On the contrarie, if man and woman vary in intelligence, mediocre mental faculties could still assert themselves in the babe, if the carrier's dominant genes were to subdue the intelligent part's recessive genes…eh, Mr. `olmes?"

„Excuse me", Holmes said in expressionless tones, but Bertillon hardly heard him.

„But of course, the question remains, `ow can we better the faculties of the existing broad populatiooon until we `ave achieved this aim, eh? Some people are just too sentimental in their outlook. I say, we need to approach this problem from a scientific point of view, and draw conclusions level-headed. Take the disabled, for example, the unfit, the mentallee ill. How much misery humankind could be spared by their eliminatiooon! Now, asylums are overflowing with idiots, and there are some who propagate radical measures. You may have heard their propositiooons of euthanasia…"

Holmes pushed past him, walking straight out of the parlour. He crossed the vestibule, headed for the lavatory. A handkerchief was pressed against his lips, and what remained visible of his face was as white as chalk.

oooOOOooo

Slowly, very slowly, as if I could hurt myself through the touch, I spanned the object with my hand, lifted it from the floor. The brilliance of the stones was a equal to what I had seen earlier that day, but the rims seemed a little rusty, a little filmed over with age and wear. There could be no doubt: This was the real thing, and the other one sham.

I rose to my feet by degrees, steadfastly peering at the object in my right hand. The tinkling of the jewels, at closer inspection, might even be a little turbid in comparison to the fake: My eyes, trained to give attention to detail through my everyday occupation, could discern the difference only with some effort. Otherwise, it was a perfect likeness. The counterfeit had been produced by a master's hand.

Madame Zhao must have wrought it. That much was clear to me. But why? Why had she made the cabman hide a false Orb in a locker at the train station, giving me a most vague and airy hint where to find it, when the real Orb was in my possession already? In hindsight, it seemed unbelievable I had not realized the unusual weight of the glass of tea Madame had pressed on me, knowing for sure I would never use the tea of my own volition. Maybe I had even wondered about it, on a subconscious level, but I certainly had not let my wonder articulate itself.

What was it she had said on our last meeting? I was to drink lots of tea…green tea, the tea with health benefits…I should go to the countryside (by train?!) and prayers to St. Lazare would see to the rest…what tomfoolery!

No, all of this was too confused, too farraginous to make any sense of. I sat on my kitchen stool, still marveling at the gem I was holding. What should I do with it? Should I inform Holmes? Or André Dulage, I thought with a sudden spiteful impulse. What right could Holmes claim to withhold information from those who had commissioned him with the Orb's recovery? Now I had recovered it, and he had just a worthless copy. Well, he would look quite a sight, when he learned I had handed in the original at the Sûrété, where it belonged!

I secretly enjoyed the idea, without having made up my mind what I actually would do. But a sound outside in the staircase ungently woke me from my reverie. There was a heavy footfall on the steps, and then, a knock on my door.

I spun around, a little guilty due to my sacrilegious thoughts.

„Mr. `olmes? Is that you?"

oooOOOooo

He raised his head to see his face in the mirror, still dripping with the wash he had given it in the sink. The curse on this man Bertillon!

However, he had been good for something, Holmes mused, drying himself with a towel. He had given him a good look at himself…the young fool he had been, so many years ago. Conceited, calculating, full of optimism and faith in science, as well as in his own abilities. Oh, the vanity. It had verily ruined his life and that of others. And for this reason, he would go to Fanny now. Go and tell her she had been right about him all along. Tell her he would never see her again, for her own good as well as his. Tell her she was free to - well, to be her own person, for God's sake!

It was right, it was just the best thing to do. He should have known after his outburst today, on the promenade. How could he presume to judge her by another person's standards? He must not ask her to conform with his ideal anymore. It was an onerous business. And even if by now, it would hurt to divest himself of her sight - yes! - it was clearly just a visual indulgence. He didn't really know her, after all, and what he had found out about her, incidentally, did not necessarily tally with his ideal.

He felt better after having made that decision. Throwing the towel in the basket, he examined himself in the mirror once more; then left the restroom. A cab was called by the concierge - pleasantly meek this time - and he drove off towards the squalid quarters where she had made her home…no doubt trying to make some point or other, when she could as well have continued living with the Watsons.

But, he reminded himself, that was not his business anymore - or rather, it had never been. They had lived through a couple of rather intense days together, and that was it. An intermezzo.

The driver stopped at the indicated address, and he got off. Having paid the man, he turned around and entered the high, run-down tenement house, too preoccupied to realize there was another cab, empty, waiting by the kerb.

 **Hiya!**

 **Ok…that took longer than expected. Mr. Bertillon was so very talkative. I guess we shall have to shift the action part to next time!**

 **I hope the confusion is not too big, with the duplicate around and everything. Sometimes I feel like laying out plot slings and loops that my foot is caught up in and I stumble and fall on my face, Phuuumph! But enough of that. Lets carry on with Chapter 23!**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	24. Chapter 24

**Unbidden visitors**

 **„** **From thee alone, which on us both at once/ the enemy, though bold, will hardly dare/ or daring, first on me th' assault shall light."**

 **Paradise Lost**

I revolved, looking at my door which quivered a little under the impact of the knocking.

„Mr. `olmes?"

There was no reply. What was the matter, I thought with a sudden tinge of fear. These heavy steps, this loud rapping…that did not sound like him at all! Could there be _several_ people outside my door? And why was there no reply?

My eyes returned to the precious object in my hand. I rapidly stuffed it into the pocket of my skirt, retreating into the farthest corner of my tiny apartment, when the rapping accelerated, and the quiver of the door grew more perceptible. They were forcing it in…!

My worst apprehensions were confirmed when the wood started flying into flinders. With a scream, I clapped my hands to my face, pressing even more into my corner, as if the wall behind my back could absorb me, get me beyond the reach of the hands that were now visible to me as they grappled with the remains of my door. They were large hands, gloved in black leather, and the fingers curled and grasped at thin air through the demolished laths.

I looked around in a panic, but there was just nowhere left to flee to. My tiny bathroom was a dead end, and the windows were aslant and high up in the wall. I was trapped.

Then the door gave in, crashing onto the banks of the floor, frame, door leaf and all. My heart was beating its way up in my chest, I could feel it even in my throat. Oh why, why had I come! Why had I not remained with Holmes, Holmes who meant protection!

There were two of them, forcing their way into my room. But my lord! What a sight they were! Black clothing covered their bodies, down to toes and fingertips, not an inch of skin to be seen. Over their heads, they had drawn black skins of a fine-meshed material, and apart from the approximate outline of their skulls, there was nothing to distinguish of their heads, hair, or faces. It was horrifying to look at, and I gasped with the shock of it, but the worst thing was their utter silence. They ignored me, and they did not even stop to exchange a word amongst themselves. They just seized the nearest piece of furniture - the closet with my wardrobe - and overturned it, scrunching its rear side to as many pieces as the poor door.

I held my breath, watching them. When their work was done and the closet was in splinters, they bent down, rifling though the debris, throwing my belongings to the left and right. It kept them fairly busy, and I began inching along the wall. Maybe, just, maybe I could reach the gap where the door had opened into the staircase without their notice!

But my hope proved treacherous. Their heads jerked up as one when, inadvertently, I stepped on the shards of the tea glass with an ugly, crunching sort of noise. We started at each other for the fraction of a second. Then, with the other man carrying on his work of destruction, one of them rose slowly and came at me. Though I could discern nothing of his expression, it was obvious he knew my lack of chances - therefore his unhurried appearance. Only his hands were raised, as if in anticipation. Maybe they longed to fasten around my neck.

I looked at the faceless man, and screamed.

oooOOOooo

He could hear the scream at the very bottom of the stairwell, and it accelerated his step considerably. Those devils were at her!

With his feet pattering the stairs, he reached into his pockets, reviewing quickly what he was carrying on his person and what might be used as a weapon. Beside his cane, there was still Madame Zhao's gimlet in one of the pockets of his outer wear, among an abundance of matches. He withdrew it, shedding his coat behind him on the stairs.

On the top landing, a hole yawned in the wall where a door used to be. He had just time to take in the scene in one glance - one man threshing Fanny's furniture on the floor, the other one threatening the girl, who cowered against the wall, quite defenseless. Then, they were there, barring his way, shoulder to shoulder.

The landing was small, too constricted a place to draw his stick. If he took one step too many, he would trip over the top stair, and probably break his neck somewhere between stories three and four. He quickly calculated his options. On the bright side, the narrow landing prevented him getting caught up between the two of them - it was impossible for them to encircle him here. If they wanted to step out of the door-hole, they would have to do it one by one, giving him time to act.

He spread his fingers wide, palms facing down, as one of the men raised his fists to protect the middle of his body, and stepped through the opening in the wall. He knew this to be an effective psychological trick, because the unfamiliar fighting attitude would unsettle the attacker. The first punch, he evaded by diving away to the side, and the man had just time to regain his equilibrium before he received a vicious kick that made him fall over backwards, down the stairs.

However, Holmes had no time to celebrate his victory. A brawny arm had locked around his neck from behind, a headlock that both impeded his aspiration and got him off his feet fairly quick. His hand dove into his pocket, fingers gripped around the gimlet. But before he could land it somewhere, the first man had recovered and was running up the stairs again. He retaliated on him with a punch in the stomach that bereft him of what breath he still had. Holmes dimly hoped no rib had been broken, the pain was so intense it was hard to tell.

His arm swung up through 90 degrees and the tip of the gimlet bore into the offender's upper arm. He drew back, howling. At the same time, the headlock seemed to loosen considerably: There was a crash, a rain of glass splinters and other debris, and the heavy form of the man sagged to the side beneath a pair of female eyes that seemed astonished at the outcome of hitting somebody over the head with a glass container.

But his gimlet had not been brought home with sufficient force, for the skipjack of an attacker was at him again. His arms locked around his chest, and Holmes felt coerced into stabbing backwards with his elbow, a thing he did not like to do because due to his height, it usually meant running it into the other person's face.

So it was this time. He reacted quickly, taking advantage of the attacker's agony, and snatched his arm. Yanking it over his shoulder, he got the man off his feet, and with a movement that resembled a bow, he brought him down right in front of Fanny's feet.

She whimpered a little.

He quickly stepped his foot on the chest of the prostrate man.

„Who are you?" He barked at him, still out of breath. „What did you want here?"

The man groaned as a reply.

„Well?" He dug the tip of his shoe into the intruder's throat.

„Mr. `olmes - "

The man struggled for breath, spluttering.

„Mr. `olmes!" She sharply exclaimed, and he lifted his gaze to her eyes…clear grey eyes, like pebbles in the bed of a rivulet, with fresh clean water bubbling over them. „I fink…I knows what they was doin` `ere."

More words were not necessary. He extended his hand, and helped her step across the motionless body of the masqued man she had brought down, out of the wrecked apartment.

She shot another glance at him, wondering whether she had killed him maybe, maybe afraid he would come to and snatch at her ankle. Then she began hurrying down the stairs, hands raised to her eyes that suddenly had become very watery.

Holmes withdrew his foot from the still defeated, yet still conscious offender. He picked up his cane as a precaution, then approached again to yank the stocking mask from the head of the stertorously breathing individual.

Thought as much.

Turning his back on him, he descended on the stairs after Fanny, stopping only to pick up the discarded coat from the steps.

oooOOOooo

I struggled in vain to present a cool, composed exterior to him, as we drove away in a cab. The water was streaming from my eyes as if from twin fountains. Why was I so damned close to water, always?

He was very gracious about it, forbearing comment, but laying his arm across my shoulders. It was only when I had calmed down that he told me, with his lips close to my ear, that I had done well. I flashed him a glance and smiled bitterly.

„Not quite so cowardly this time? Not too bad for somebody who likes playing it safe, right?"

He abstained from replying, and I shook my head despondently. „I'm - sorry, Mr. `olmes. You jus' saved my life. I s' ppose I ought to say: Thank you."

„That is quite unnecessary. I would be more gratified to hear what those scoundrels were doing in your flat. From what I was able to make out, they seemed to be searching it, and thoroughly, too."

„I can only guess they came for the Orb, Mr. `olmes."

„The - ?" He arched a brow, and I remembered he must be thinking of the paste-bedecked object we had taken from locker Nr. 115.

I reached into the pocket of my skirt. A warm feeling of relief expanded in my chest when I could still feel it there, and a soupçon of triumph, too…they had not been able to snatch it from me, after all!

„I mean - this Orb, Mr. `olmes. The real one."

oooOOOooo

I had explained everything to Holmes by the time we reached the Meurice, and his surprise was beyond measure. So deeply did it precipitate him into thought that I did not even dare to suggest I remain in the cab. Moreover, I did not want to provoke his dissatisfaction with me again by pointing out my discomfort with entering the Meurice again. And last but not least, where else had I to take refuge? The afternoon's events had shown me clearly that I was no longer safe, that I needed his protection. My flat, devastated and violated, was off limits.

We walked up the flat stairs to the entrance, side by side. To my surprise and relief, the odious concierge did not look at us twice. Maybe, he was usefully occupied, for once. The lift boy was a different one than on Sunday morning, and I was grateful for this, too. Holmes opened the door to his suite for me, and discreetly let me in first.

I hesitatingly sat down on a pouf, nervously kneading my fingers, while he strode toward the safe and unlocked it with a few turns of the wheel. He exchanged the fake orb for the real one and locked it again, then tossed the fake into the air, catching it one-handed with a short laugh.

„What a remarkable comedy of errors. Frances, I apologize for this display of blatant failure. Clearly, you encounter me in one of those instances where my professional identity as a detective is a trifle hard to discern. I ought to consider a career as a baggage porter, or a court jester!"

I dropped my hands into my lap impatiently. „Mr. `olmes, `ow can you say so? Nobody could `ave anticipated this turn o` events. If anything, _I_ ought to `ave known Madame would go fer a ruse like that, though what she aimed to achieve through it, I don't know…"

„No, no." He ran his hand through his hair. „I should have been able to tell, from the tools and materials present in her workshop. But naturally, I assumed they had been used in the restoration of the Orb, not for the production of a complete doublet. Now, as for the reason why she did it -„

He sighed. „Fanny, I had thought to act in Madame's interest in keeping the recovery of the Orb - what we then took to be the Orb - to ourselves. You see, if her abductors are still interested in retrieving it - as it would seem they are - her chances at survival would be good as long as the thing had not been found. Now, I see she had intended an opposite effect. She had hoped the recovery of the faux Orb would become known soon, so that her abductors would be lured onto a false track. The real gem, meanwhile, would be safe with you, who didn't know you possessed it, until one day you either made up your mind to drink the tea, or to break the glass as you did."

„But - what about her safety under the actual circumstances?" I urged.

He slowly, regretfully, raised his shoulder. „That seems to be a point either absent from Madame's attention, or, as I think more likely, her priorities".

I looked at him, and he slowly, hardly perceptibly, nodded. I averted my face.

„No, Fanny, you must not despair." He sat beside me quickly, as if he did not dare to do this if he stopped to think about it. „These men, in whatever way they are affiliated to the enemy, do not know of the existence of two Orbs. It is only we who know that - or at least, let us presume that. But they know we have it, and that is why we will go away from this place first thing in the morning…leaving the imitation here for them."

And he set it down on the coffee table, where it sparkled like an entire jeweler's display.

„But Madame?" I demurred.

„Have no fear. If I don't mistake our enemy, he will know it for a forgery as soon as he holds it in his hands. Meanwhile, we are far away."

„Where will we be?"

„In England", he said, and it sounded like the end of the discussion. „And now, it is time for dinner. I am fairly starved, how about you? And as to sleeping", he added, and I felt myself color a little. „There is an extra room to the suite, which I propose to occupy tonight."

I nodded mutely, and he got up to make preparations.

 **Holmes and Fanny are taking to flight! But who is the foe and where can they be actually safe from him? Is Sussex the answer? And what will happen to the captive restorer?**

 **Keep looking on in! We will find out!**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	25. Chapter 25

**From the Life of Marionettes**

 **„** **Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chained/ And seal thee so, as henceforth not to scorn/ the facile gates of hell too slightly barred."**

 **Paradise Lost**

She had verbalized a wish to bathe, so while she was in his _salle de bains_ , he sent the page to organize something for her to wear. The request might seem a little outré in another establishment - not here, however. The _Meurice_ would be happy to procure anything for a guest, no matter how extravagant his desire. If he had ordered the Gizeh Pyramids on a silver plate, the page would no doubt have asked whether he wanted champagne with it.

So there. The lady's measurements were established by means of the robe she had heretofore discarded, and dirty minutes later, a flat white box was delivered to his room, accompanied by a smaller shoe box. He idly removed the lid to lift the dress by its shoulder pieces: Electric blue was the color he had asked for, since this was a hue he found particularly becoming for red-heads. The dress had long sleeves, a long bodice front, and was embroidered with a pomegranate motif a somewhat darker tint.

He had no interest in the intricacies, but she would appreciate them.

Next thing, he went to the room next doors, sat down on the escritoire and scribbled three notes: One for Fanny's employer, who would no doubt wonder at her absence, one for Mrs. Hudson (she would be more surprised by the fact that he announced his return than by an unannounced appearance!), and one to a certain address in London. Having posted them via the page, it only remained for him to pack.

He was still rummaging among his things when a timid knock in the door separating the bedsitter from the main suite reminded him to the presence of a second person in his rooms. He quickly put on his dinner jacket, and opened.

Fanny was wearing the dress, the electric blue one. Her bright red locks were twisted up in an elaborate hair-do, and she gave him a look half shy gratitude, half reproachful you-shouldn't-have. He paused to allow his eyes taking in every detail: The intriguing contrast of the two vivid colours, red and blue, relieved by the pallor of her Baron- Gruneresque- Porcelain skin. Her hand slightly cramped around a fan that had come with the dress, her eyes were cast down, as if surveying herself for flaws, really to avoid his gaze.

He heaved a sigh, and put on his best smile. „Shall we?"

oooOOOooo

We were talking plenty at dinner, though that we managed not to say a single thing was a feat I regard as remarkable. Nothing about Madame Zhao, nothing about what had happened in my flat earlier, nothing about our impending departure or the two Orbs that were upstairs in the suite. Nothing.

He complimented me on the effect of the dress, not without a sarcastic strain, of course, he couldn't help it. I smiled a little.

„Thank ya, Mr. `olmes, tha's very kind. But I still don't fink it right ya should of got me a fancy gown like this."

„You needed something to wear", he replied simply. „Besides, thanks is due to the French Government - remember."

He well-nigh winked at me, and I could not help laughing. „Anyway, it was very thoughtful. And the colour is dazzling, really! I had not known hotel pages ter be so well educated in matters o` taste."

The corners of his mouth twitched, which always gave a bit of a painful impression along with the insinuation of smiling. I failed to assess it correctly, and strove for a neutral expression.

„Speaking of taste and dresses. I wonder `ow Madame Martinez will take it when I don't maike an appearance tomorrow."

Holmes, picking on his plate with the enthusiasm of an overfed cheetah at the zoo, waved this concern away. „Do no worry. I send her a note; explained everything. You became very ill under the strain of the past weeks, and developed anaemia. I am having you take the waters at Vichy. She shall not expect you back before a fortnight has gone by, I wager."

I pushed back a strand of hair, and involuntarily looked into one of the mirrors the lofty room abounded with. The face looking back at me was pale enough to make a claim at anaemia credible. Maybe it was my sickly looks that had given him the idea. Maybe the strain _had_ made me ill.

But now we were bound for Sussex, and open landscapes, and clean sea breezes. And all would be well.

oooOOOooo

We were back at the suite before eleven. I sensed we had both declined dessert under a pretext. He entered with me albeit there was a separate door to his bedsitter. He said he wanted to take the real Orb from the safe to carry it on his person from now on, and I knew this was a pretext, too.

While he was entering combinations by means of the small wheel, I poured drinks to give my hands something to do. Turning my back on him made me incredibly nervous, bordering on hysteria - but facing him, given the circumstances, was worse.

I gazed at the Cava I had poured into the goblet, so tangy and silvery-gold, like molten diamonds. But I felt no curiosity to taste it, and thought I probably never would. The safe door fell to with a clicking sound, and I sensed a distinct frisson on my bare neck, as if the tips of his fingers were only a few inches away. I could not see whether they were, though, I remained still, closing my eyes.

„Let down your hair", he quietly said, and I obeyed, my eyes still closed. His steps, however, could be heard on the marble floor, and I felt him circling me with slow, sparse movements. Thick, wavy hair gushed down my shoulders, my hair, my mother's, my sister's, my Aunt Cathy's hair. I breathed faster, waiting for him to touch it, to twist and turn it between his fingers, and I wanted to lean in, to let him do it.

But he did not, he didn't touch it. Instead, he continued circling me, incessantly.

„Gather it…lay it across your shoulder…like so", he murmured, and I obeyed, just obeyed. What else could I do? My hair streamed down over one shoulder, like a river of blood. We were one blood, one flesh, bone, nail, nerve, muscle and hair. One brood.

I felt him withdraw, and opened my eyes. In the polished surface of a piece of wall decor, I could see him sit down in a chair by the coffee table, several meters away from me.

„Take off your dress", he demanded, and I swallowed heavily. He didn't want me to turn round, then. Very well. By this time, I had ceased to care.

Slowly, awkwardly, as if I were being operated by a remote agency, I raised my arms to undo the buttons on my back, one by one. Otherwise, I remained stationary, watching his reflection in the burnished brass surface. He did not move either, he sat quite still, slightly tilted back, as would the spectator of a portrait.

My dress cleft brazenly on the backside, and I had reached the last button. The sleeves slipped down my arms with ease, and the bodice went with them, hanging limply from my waist. I used both hands to gently force the dress down over my haunches, and, letting go off it, felt it slip and drop to the floor with the rich whispering sound of silks and brocades I loved so much.

Carefully, I stepped out of the pooling dress. The cool air met large portions of my bare flesh, and I shivered a little. What would he do next? I was waiting - waiting -

But he did nothing. He sat still, looking at me, looking from an angle where absolutely no part of my face was visible to him. I breathed quickly. My lips, from constant biting on from nervousness, tingled as though I had tasted hot spices, and there was a heat deep down in my body, which, instead of abating in the cool air, increased by the second. How long before something would finally happen? But he was taking his time.

„Remove your underskirt", he ordered in the same, dispassionate voice, that called to mind a connoisseur who wanted to see everything before he gave his expert opinion. Growing impatient, I fumbled hastily with the fastening of my undergarment. I would have known the sound of the material, rushing down to the floor, in the dark. Gauze.

There was not much clothing left. Soon, my hair would be the sole ornament to my nudity. My heart beat strong, painfully almost, when a sense of my degradation flooded into my consciousness - here I was, half-naked while he remained unapologetically dressed, looking at my faceless backside as though it were some interesting piece he had found at an art dealer's. A copy, to be sure! But one could still assess the quality of the workmanship, the truth to the original.

It was no use, no use. I was helplessly compliant when he bade me step out of my heeled shoes, thus reducing my hight. Maybe it was the timbre of the voice that quietly issued the commands. Maybe it was his shiftless reflection in the brass that exuded assurance and authority. Maybe it was my own body, faithless and prepared to collaborate with the foe. I was inclined to believe the latter. Now I had tasted the cup, I desperately wanted to imbibe it again.

But why the wretched distance? Following a riotous impulse, I set to turn around - but his hand, raised with fierce decision, stopped me. My breast heaved, and I stared ahead of myself wide-eyed. How much more did he want before he would consider giving something in return?

A minute passed in silence. My throbbing heart, my ragged breath gave me enough to do. In vain, I tried to calm myself, to retain a shred of dignity I might cling to. But in the face of a corporeal surrender, what could I do to preserve myself? A quiver ran through my nervous system, painful but delicious. If only the wait were over soon; he might do with me whatever he wanted…

Precisely uttered words told me what he wanted. „Take off your brassière."

Unsteady fingers unhooked a clasp, and my bosom spilled against the barrier of my crossed arms which I had instinctively raised in protection. It was full, soft and heavy, and longed for appreciation. He had seen me before. Why had I to remain like this, facing away from him? It was not fair, and I wanted to see him…to feel him…

„And the - the rest."

I responded to the request by shoving my briefs down my thighs, my knees, my ankles. My imagination was filled with ideas of his arousal as I wriggled and twisted to get free. I stepped out of my remaining garment and stood still, holding my breath, closing my eyes again in anticipation. It couldn't be long now. It couldn't. It was possible to procrastinate only so far.

With my breath suppressed, I could hear him rise from his seat slowly. Another minute passed, during which I suffered agonies. Then, Sherlock Holmes sighed, a deep, unearthly sigh, that told of regret, tiredness and disappointment more than any sound I every heard.

He took a few strides toward his room and disappeared within. I remained where I was, for another ten minutes or so.

He did not come back.

oooOOOooo

Patent-leather man regarded the executioner impassively. „Well?"

„Sir! When we had accessed the rooms, they were no longer there. The baggage and everything was gone, with no sign of intended return. But we found - this."

There was a small triumphant quiver in the voice of the speaker as he extended his hand and presented a bonny, sparkling little object: The King's Orb!

He accepted the treasure trove and looked at it long and hard, before passing it on to a lackey, who in turn handed it to the crouching woman on the floor in one corner of the room. She took it from him with tumbling hands that seemed to weak even to hold such a small thing. Her eyes, sunk deep into their sockets, gazed at it earnestly, almost in wonder, as though she had never seen it before. Before she spoke, she let her hands sink into her lap to look up at the two paintings hung over the mantlepiece, and the woman that was portrayed in them.

Then, but reluctantly, she directed her eyes at leather-patent man, or rather at his trouser knees, for higher up she still dared not look, dared not meet these eyes of stone so much in disagreement with everything that was beautiful and harmonious, everything she loved.

Knowing that this might put her into severe danger, she nodded her confirmation. „This is it!" Her voice, untrained of late, came out as hoarse croak.

„Speak up!" Hissed the man who had given her the Orb.

„This is it!" Madame Zhao repeated, as forcefully and with as much emphasis as she could. „This is the King's Orb!"

A self-complacent smile slowly extended across the face of the executioner. He had done well, then! It ad not been so very difficult after all, the thing had been fully accessible on a coffee table in the middle of the room, no safe-breaking, no nuisance. But it was not necessary now to go into details.

His smile was wiped from his face with the vicious blow that was dealt by the cold, corpse-like hand of the patent-leather man.

„Fool!" He snarled. „She's lying."

At these words, Madame Zhao dropped the orb. It rolled across the floor, until the lackey had stopped it and picked it up. At the beckoning of his master, he hurled it against the wall - and the glittering surface of colorful stones went to pieces, revealing a simple wooden ball as and understructure, mottled with adhesive that had been applied to keep the Rhine stones on place.

The executioner paled. The lackey sent a questioning glance at his master, who shrugged and extended his fist, thumb pointing down.

„No! No, no, master!" The executioner spluttered, as the lackey rung a bell and two more men came into the room. „Please, I - surely I deserve another chance! I can find them, master! Wherever they are hiding, the Orb must be with them! I can hunt them up, I have all the means to do it, you know that master! Mas-terrr!"

The two men did not heed his clamour. They hooked their arms under his armpits and dragged him from the room, still protesting his valour, his loyalty. Patent-leather man turned his back on him.

„Throw the other one back into the dark cell", he commanded, slowly walking toward the other end of the room with a thoughtful crease between his brows, while Madam Zhao was removed from his presence in much the same way as the executioner.

 **Hullo!**

 **Crime, threatening, violence, degradation, fraud, escape…A lot has been going on these past chapters, and as always, I would be charmed to hear your thoughts! So don't be shy to speak out!**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	26. Chapter 26

**Old friends**

 **„** **That thou art happy, owe to God/ that thou continuest such, owe to thyself."**

 **Paradise Lost**

Mrs. Hudson's welcome gave me a feeling I had never been properly hugged before in my life.

She held me by the shoulders, though she had to get on tip-toe to do it, as though I would crumble if it were not for her support, like a rag doll. Her smile beamed across her benign, old-maidish face.

„How tall you have grown, Madam! How pretty! It seems only yesterday that you were running around the house - a romp, you were, Madame, if I may say so! - playing and singing and baking tea cakes in the kitchen. But look at you now! So elegant, so sophisticated, so…."

„Mrs. Hudson." Holmes' face was extremely weary, and his voice even more so. „If you would Kindly allow me into my house now, I would be very much obliged indeed. You forget we have had rather a long journey today. Tea would be very welcome, if you don't mind…?"

„Mr. Holmes!" She huffed, taking her eyes off me for the moments, but holding on to my shoulders as if he were trying to take me away from her. „When one hasn't seen one another in seven years, one has a right to some words of welcome, won't you agree?"

I smiled at her, as I hope, encouragingly. The truth is, I had little experience of inspiring such kind feelings in anyone, and was genuinely touched by the emotional display of a lady I had remembered as proper and a little formal. But time will change one's standards, and to me, long weaned as I was from the rough familiarity of the Limehouse streets, her words and deeds seemed the most cordial treatment I had ever received.

Holmes did not appear to share my sentiments, for he forced himself past her by means of our suitcases, and disappeared inside the house. The dear old house! Reaching up for Mrs. Hudson's hand and pressing it lightly, I took a small step back and looked up at the sturdy beams of the Sussex cottage, a place so friendly and smiling it almost made me forget the horrors that had taken within and around it.

„Thank ya, Mrs. `udson. It is good ter be back, innit?"

Unconsciously, I had put on a thicker layer of my native accent than usual with me these days. The elderly lady looked at my face, and her eyes narrowed as if with an unbearable composure of love and pain. Inwardly, her look of bereavement made me flinch. Another one of the sort! Would I never be free of the past? Damn you, Kitty!

Aloud, I said: „I am afeared Mr. `olmes was c`rrect, Mrs. `udson. I feel the exertion of journeying upon me now. Would it be possible for me ter lay down for a while?"

„Of _course_ , Madam!" She clasped my hand in both of hers and peered up at me, still with a lingering sense of that bereavement, but a little more lucid now. „Of _course_!"

And we went inside, into the space _she_ had inhabited.

oooOOOooo

Mrs. Hudson had prepared the rear room for me, a guest room Aunt Mary and Uncle John had occasionally occupied in years gone by. It gave over the backyard, the stables and the kitchen garden with its herb beds and bean poles, now carefully covered for the impending winter. Some hands were tending the horses that had brought us here. Steam rose from the bodies of the quadrupeds.

I just set what was in my hands on the floor and dresser - it was just a carpet bag and a few parcels with hastily acquired necessities - and plunked myself onto the bed full length. Staring up at the whitewashed ceiling, I pondered. It was true what I had told Mrs. Hudson, the journey _had_ exhausted me - but not for the reasons that she would probably assume.

Actually, everything had gone very smoothly. We had observed no followers, and had been impeded by none. We had got the train to Calais alright, and we had not missed the boat headed for Dover. Once across the channel, chances that we were being followed had begun to look fairly slim, and we had relaxed our watchfulness and hired a horse cart to take us into Sussex.

And yet. I can hardly think of any occasion where traveling had been less comfortable for me, or more precisely, the company in which I travelled. During the whole of our seven hour voyage, Holmes had not directed a single word at me except for instructions as to tickets and watchfulness. Whenever possible, he had withdrawn into silence - hard, icy, almost inimical silence.

Maybe I could not blame him for it. The preceding evening weighed heavily on us both, and I did not think of myself as less culpable than he. My weakness had contributed to bringing about the dreadful situation in which we were now placed. How could I have been so purblind? Whatever might have come from my behavior - my compliancy with his whim - it would never have been anything that he or I could approve of in hindsight, and I had implicitly been aware of this. Suffice the one misstep, we did not need to repeat it.

But now we were here, thrown together again. I nervously plucked at the corner of a pillow. How would it affect him to see me in this sphere? Would it make things worse between us? God, I just wished I knew what his plans were, if he had any. Laying low here was no permanent solution. I would have to return to Paris at some point. And so would he.

The afternoon softly blended into evening outside, and I still stared up at the ceiling, brooding.

oooOOOooo

„Toad in a hole! I haven't forgotten your favorite dish, you see, Madam!" Mrs Hudson proudly announced, as she carefully stepped across some of Holmes' mess with a tureen balanced in her hands. It was incredible how fast he was to accumulate rubbish on the floor around his person. Mrs. Hudson's neat little kitchen was strewn with things from his valises, and he himself sat in a corner behind the rustic table, in shirtcuffs and with a sour expression.

„For God's sake, Mrs. Hudson!" He snapped as dinner was announced. „The Meurice has treated this girl to a lump of gold's worth of oysters and champagne. Do you seriously think to impose on her palate with this carbohydrate and grease mélange?"

„Be quiet!" I bit back, and he fell silent, a little taken aback. To the indignant landlady, I said with a smile: „Thank you, Mrs. `udson, it was very thoughtful. Such a delicious smell, too!"

Though I must admit, my stomach turned a little when I looked into the tureen. Holmes' description of the receipt had been accurate. Had I really liked such things as a child?

Holmes was sitting with his arms crossed over his chest through the greater part of the meal, smoking his pipe regardless of the eaters. Mrs. Hudson`s appetite was visibly undiminished by it, but I struggled with my helping, and when we rose from the table, I felt as though I had ingested a stone.

I helped wash the dishes, and Holmes retreated into his burrow. The landlady, at whom I passed the plates for drying, mentioned that Mildred had enquired after me.

„…and told her you were coming today with Mr. Holmes, but that she had better wait until tomorrow before she called, as I did not know what your plans were. I hope this finds your agreement, Madam?"

„O' course, Mrs. `udson. You were right, I was very tired terday. Tomorrow, I shall be happy to meet Mildred. It has been ages!"

But again, I only feigned my joy to please the old lady. It would be more to the point to confess I had begun to dread meeting people from „the past". What if I had ceased to exist? What if I was only there to remind, remind each and everyone of a state of affairs irrevocably beyond our reach?

oooOOOooo

I woke to mild sunshine creeping into my room by stages. First, it touched the floor beneath the window, then it reached the counterpane on my bed and started to approach my hands and face, which had welded into the pillow. I sighed. I could not hide in here, I had to get up and dress, and so I did. Better to confront Holmes now, ask him what he intended to do, than remain in uncertainty for another day.

But I was not fated to receive explication. On the steps downstairs, I met the landlady, who was carrying up a stack of clean linnen.

„Mrs. `udson! Good morning! I was wondering whether Mr. `olmes is up already?"

She affected a mysterious expression. „Mr. Holmes was up very early indeed, Madam, but he has gone up to London with the first train."

„To London!" My surprise was considerable. „To do what?"

„Well, he doesn't tell me, Madam. I only know that he was very smartly dressed. He was wearing a tie with an emerald needle in it, imagine! At this time of day!"

She sniffed a little, as though wearing an emerald needle were to be considered highly improper. I frowned. „Awright, then. Thank you, Mrs. `udson."

As I proceeded on my way down the stairs, I felt the frown etch deeper into my brow. What could this possibly mean? I wished I had possessed the courage to question him earlier on his course of action! Clearly, I wouldn't hear from him before tomorrow, maybe later.

But I was wrong here.

When I sat down to my breakfast cover, lovingly prepared by Mrs. Hudson, I saw something white twisted into the thick, stiff ornamental table napkin. I unrolled it, and found a note written on something that looked like a page spontaneously torn from a pocketbook. It read:

 _Fanny,_

 _Pray take note of my sincere regrets. I will be back from London tomorrow with news, and, so I hope, improved manners._

 _SH_

That was all. I placed the piece of paper next to my plate to re-read it as I ate my breakfast, slowly and ponderously.

oooOOOooo

„Fanny!" Mildred beamed at me, white teeth flashing with health and many drinks of fresh milk. Her outstretched arms wrapped me, drew me close to her narrow chest. „How well you look!"

„So do you", I returned, sheepishly, but it was not empty flattery. For some reason unclear to me, I had pictured my girlhood companion as a broad, chunky young woman with a dairy bucket and and oafish, good-natured grin on her face. At the sight of the slender creature with the velvety reddish-brown complexion, I felt outright bad about my prejudices. How narrow I had become! Life in the metropolis maybe had not done as much for my character as I had hoped.

„You haven't changed a whit", she mused, looking me over again and again in amazement. „Though your legs, of course, have grown longer, and there's some improvement on the end of them, too!" And she playfully smacked me on my bottom, a demonstration of intimacy I was utterly unprepared for.

But at least, my appearance clearly did not bring memories of mourning to her mind. With relief I registered that in this one case at least, it was I, not my aunt, who had left the lasting impression.

„Er…thank you", I returned, bewildered, but pleased.

„And how fancy you are!" She admired my apparel, not restricting herself to visual appraisal, but tugging at my skirt here, brushing over my collar there, as though we still were children that toyed with one another totally without inhibitions.

„I must needs be dressed well, because I work for a fashion designer. See here! I made this for you!" I declared, and delved my hand into the valise Holmes had slovenly abandoned on the kitchen floor. It found the brown paper bag, and took out the hat with silk flowers.

Mildred's mouth formed an O as she took the gift without false hesitation and placed it on her head before one of Mrs. Hudson's polished pans. „My, look at me! Don't I look chic with that straw boater? People will think I'm a lady!"

„You are a lady!" I said, with a sudden impulse that overrode all of my customary reserve, and laid my arms around her waist as sisters will. She stopped, hands still raised to the hat, and laughed at me, that fresh, milky white laugh.

„Thank you, Fanny. Oh, I am right glad you came! Let's go out into the sunshine, shall we? A new hat needs parading!"

I agreed, and we strode out of doors, and beyond the small brick wall in front of the cottage.

„So I hear you run your father's farm these days, all on yer own?" I enquired lightly, without having to force conversation. I had not felt so easy, so unrestrained with anyone in ages!

„Well, not all by myself, shall we say." She winked at me merrily. „I married earlier this year. He's the son of one of the neighboring farmers. Tom. Now, don't you start to sing!"

But I was humming already, and she shook her head in despair at my simplicity. „So anyways. He is a big help, since Pa is beginning to have some trouble lifting and carrying heavy loads, and I can't very well do the hay harvest all on my own. That's what we do these days, hay and cows, mostly. Although - „ and she smiled as if at a private joke" - we still have our bees."

„Your bees? Ah!" Walking around the cottage, I spied two large, conical shapes down in the meadow. They seemed surrounded by tiny, moving dots. „I think I can see them!"

But Mildred shook her head. „No, no. This is not ours. This is your bees."

„Why, I can't follow you!"

„Don't you remember? The one's left here from the predecessor? You took care of them when you came here. You can't have forgotten that!" Mildred marvelled, looking at me almost reproachfully.

„Yes - no - I `ave not - only I didn't know the hives were still `ere! Who tends them, if not you?"

„Mr. `olmes, of course! I even borrowed him a book of mine: _Practical Handbook Of Bee Culture with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen_ is the title, and if it ever taught anybody any beekeeping at all, that person is Mr. Holmes. He cares for them so well that over the years, their number has trebled!"

„That is…remarkable", I mumbled, and with going deeper into the subject, we walked past the hives, still busy in late autumn, and strolled deeper into the green, rolling meadows of South Sussex.

 **Hello, hello!**

 **I feel warmer now around the heart when I write Fanny, and I hope the feeling is shared by you, the readers. Holmes, of course, is a complete bum, but we don't expect anything else, aye?**

 **But even the mellow October sun inn merry old England is insufficient to dissolve certain difficulties. Fanny is confused, and surrounded by a vortex that quickly sucks her in deeper. What will happen to our heroes when things finally come to a head?**

 **Read on and find out!**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	27. Chapter 27

**Stiles**

 **„** **Arm, warriors, arm for fight, the foe at hand/ whom fled we thought, will save us long pursuit/ this day, fear not his flight, so thick a cloud/ he comes"**

 **Paradise Lost**

My thoughts were still with the bees when, after dinner at Mildred's farm with her father and husband, she walked me home in the gathering dust. I wondered why he had kept them, why he had taken the trouble to take care of them, to read up on the matter of beekeeping and to learn its practical execution. Apiculture, if Mildred was any reference, was much more than a hobby: It required the investment of time and money; with exhaustion, frustration, and the odd sting in your body as inevitable side-effects.

Why had he not just got rid of the hives? He had been through in divesting himself of anything that might remember him about the days of our - dare I say it - family life. Kittys few personal belongings, such as the picture of her mother and the cat Ginger Jack…they had had the same fate as I, expulsed from home, the same fate as baby Sheridan. There was not a single hint in the entire house to suggest that we had ever been here, or existed even. I had looked into every room to make certain. There was not a single likeness of Kitty, though as an artist's model she must have been painted and photographed many times.

We had been obliterated.

But then, these beehives. What was it that had made them dear enough to him, to him, who had always disdained to take up any activity for its own sake, without expecting benefits for his one and only passion? I could not think of any explanation, save that the precision and the systematic efficiency that determined the life of a bee state possibly appealed to him.

I had fallen silent during my deliberations, and Mildred must have noticed it, for she gave me a strange look from the side. „Say, are you alright? You have not grown into a chatterbox, you know, I'll give you that."

„Uh? Oh I am sorry, Mildred!" I stopped, confused. „It is just - I don't know, it must be the aftereffects of yesterday's strenuous journey."

„Now, don't tell me stories." She put her hand on my arm, looking firmly into my eyes. „You and Mr. Holmes, you are on a case, are you not? Come on, you can be honest with me. I am not going to put it in the newspaper."

Thus pressed, I admitted there might be some truth in what she was saying.

„Ha! I knew it!" She clapped her hands triumphantly. „And I'll bet my best cow Maisie it concerns yonder house in some way."

My eyes followed her extended arm to some point beyond the darkening meadows, where the gable of a cottage was only just to be seen. I frowned.

„What makes ya fink so?"

„Well…" Seeing that I did not dissimulate, but was in truth unable to follow her, she lowered her voice confidentially. „The other day, Mrs. Hudson mentioned the empty house. She said Mr. Holmes had questioned her about it."

„Questioned her? What can you mean?"

„Well, he seemed interested all of a sudden to know about the tenant, and she said he even went there to have a look around, and to look for traces as the people there had visited only recently."

I shook my head with an insecure laugh. „She musta got it wrong. What interest could an old house such as that possibly hold for Mr. Holmes? I can't even really remember it from seven years ago. It was empty, wasn't it?"

„No!" Whispered Mildred, clearly enjoying the fact that she knew something to surprise me with. „That's just the thing: Mrs. Hudson said she remembers the only time the tenants had been here before was exactly seven years ago, when you were living here with the Holmeses!"

I felt something cold creep up my spine, in spite of Mildred's fresh complexion and bright eyes. „Tha' s curious, I admit. Did Mr. Holmes himself say something to you about this matter?"

„No, he did not. But on the same day, I bicycled into town, where I saw him. He had just stepped out of the land registry office."

I shrugged my shoulders. „I don't un'erstand ya. What are ya trying to say?"

„Isn't it crystal clear? He was enquiring after the tenant's name!" She smiled complacently. „So I waited until he was out of sight, and then I got off my bicycle, and walked straight in. Asked the clerk about tenancy at the old cottage. Seemed to annoy him quite a bit, because he said something to the effect that he might as well keep the papers on his desk, if people continued to come in and ask about them."

„So? Did he show them to you?" I asked, feeling inexplicably uneasy.

„Sure he did!" Mildred raised her chin. „The cottage has been let to a certain Mr. T. Rhys-Folmec seven years ago, and he has extended the tenancy contract in three-year intervals ever since."

oooOOOooo

Holmes was as good as his word. He returned on the following day, and as I had come to meet him on the platform of the countryside train station, I discovered he had not come alone.

„Uncle John!"

I threw my arms around the short, chuckling man in the _grise_ tweedsuit, and pressed him to my heart. „You `ere!"

„My dearest girl!" Uncle John embraced me warmly, before holding me an arm length away to look at me. „Thank God for your good looks! After all Holmes has told me you have been through, I had expected a sick and nervous girl!"

„Well, ya should know me better`n that, Uncle John! You look well too", I exclaimed, pecking him on his cheek. Despite my words, I found his usually ruddy complexion a little wanting in colour, and there were dark rings beneath his eyes as well. Once even a little thickset, he was now rather gaunt and fragile. Aunt Mary's death, I ruminated, had not passed him by without a trace.

He set to watch out for the trolley with their luggage at once, and I could not but extend my welcome to Holmes, who had silently looked on.

„Mr. `olmes. I'm glad you are back", I mumbled self-consciously.

„So am I. Good to see you, Frances", he replied, extending his hand to me. I accepted it, bewildered by the formal gesture, when our intercourse had formerly been so much more intimate. My eyes wandered up to meet his, searchingly. There were many things on my mind I would have liked to ask him, if it were not for Uncle John and my cowardice.

He was also troubled, I could tell that from his mien, although a stranger might not have noticed. „I thought you would welcome the opportunity to see John Watson again. I think you have been separated since - „

„ - since the funeral, yes", I said, blushing at the thought of my appalling behavior on that day. „Mr. `olmes, I only want ya ter know - „

But that very moment, the sound of a heavy trolley pulled across the platform approached, and out of nowhere, Uncle John was back at our side. There was a tiny silence, during which he looked from me to Holmes and from Holmes to me uncertainly.

„Our suitcases! My dear Watson, you are the mainstay of this voyage. They had put them back on train by mistake? Well, they would have travelled on if it had not been for you. _I_ would not have thought such thick-headedness possible, much less have anticipated it. Halleluja!" And he marched down the platform, swinging his cane and to all intents and purposes expecting us to hurry after him.

Uncle John gave me a brief glance. „You really do look well, my child", he repeated, albeit with a low ring of incertitude. „Come, we must not let Mrs. Hudson wait. She will be waiting for us with hot tea, I'll wager."

And we followed suit, just as we were supposed to do.

oooOOOooo

Uncle John was right, of course. After tea, we found a quiet moment for an interview, for Mrs. Hudson was washing the dishes, and Mr. Holmes had excused himself under the pretext of looking after the bees.

„Well, my dear. All of this must have been rather a shock to you", Uncle John said in summary, stirring the remainder in his cup with a tea spoon. „The men who burgled you in particular."

I drew up my shoulders with a shudder. „You may well believe that! All on my own, they would very probably have manhandled me `orribly, and then done me in."

His fist unconsciously drew together. „Those blackguards! Threatening a helpless woman! Ah! If only I had been there!"

„I `ave not been totally `elpless", I reminded him. „Luckily, Mr. `olmes was in time ter save me life. `e was fantastic! If it `adn't been for `im, it is doubtful indeed whether we two would have met again."

„Yes - it is a mercy he came by", Uncle John said slowly, and of a sudden I felt a need to explain this circumstance.

„Right..ah…because…because `e wanted ter let me know about the latest developments", I fibbed. „We `ave been exchanging information, you see."

„Have you?" He fingered the handle of his china teacup. „Well, I must say, I am glad to see you thus reconciled to Mr. Holmes, Fanny. When I think of your encounter earlier this year…"

„Please! Don't mention it", I asked, my ears burning. „I cannot believe my shameful comportment. I `aven't asked yer forgiveness for it yet, Uncle John. It was not a day to unearth old animosities, and I am awfully sorry."

He shook his head, smiling kindly. „You were confused with the pain of loss. I am only relieved to find you changed your mind about Holmes, who is, after all, not at all a bad fellow."

„I know." I hung my head a little.

„There, there." Uncle John patted my scalp forbearingly. „What counts is the present. And it seems you have become quite good friends, despite everything."

„That is true." I smiled timidly. „I used ter disbelieve yer accounts of the adventures you `ave `ad together…not the substance, o` course, on`y the way ya would allus maike `im appear in the brightest light. It made me angry…I guess I kinda thought ya were bein` modest, puttin` yer light under the bushel for `is sake. A bit of jealousy might of played a part, I s`ppose, `cause `e seemed ter be so important t'ya. Little did I fink `e could be like this in real life: A gallant man, brave, selfless, with nerves of steel and a mind so sharp as to pierce every mystery. Why - „ and I laughed, „it sounds too good ter be true, doesn't it?"

Uncle John remained silent for a moment, reaching into his pocket for a smoke. „Yes, my child", he finally said, lighting a match and bringing it closer to the cigarette between his lips, „I expect it does."

And in the light of the small flame, I could see a mild frown dig into the spot between his eyebrows, drawn together forbiddingly.

oooOOOooo

He was done for today at the hives. Taking of the thick gloves that protected his hands, he sighed inwardly with relief: The full use of his hands allowed him to light a cigarette, the first one in hours, thanks to the blasted new non-smoking regulations on train.

He was not in a hurry, and slowly ambled back toward the house, drawing on his fag. Winter was coming, and no mistake: But still, compared to evenings in the city, those on the Downs somehow always seemed to be balmy, one reason why he valued the place above all others in the Kingdom. Watson was leaning against the frame of the front door when he came up the path, also enveloped in his smoking habit. He nodded at him with a small smile - the Watson smile, kind, polite, unassuming.

„I say, my dear Watson, my frame aches with abiding cramped between train seats and luggage nets for hours on end. Would you care for a stroll?"

„Of course." Watson dropped his cigarette end, extinguishing it with his heel.

They chose the path which, over rolling hills, finally led to the small market town. The mild exertion of climbing stiles and walking uphill was indeed a pleasant counter to the inactivity imposed by train traveling. He closed his eyes and tried to recall the feeling of _jumping_ across the stile instead of carefully stepping across it - but those days were past, and he would not make a fool of himself trying to prove otherwise!

He shared this sentiment with Watson, who replied only with a small mutter. A small glance to the side sufficed: Yes, Watson was a tad displeased with something, and he would have to find out, cautiously, what it was.

He sighed. This was hard work to him.

„Don't you feel, old man, that we are taking the best course possible int his enterprise?"

„Well, you know my reservations, Holmes. We should take her into our complete confidence."

„We will, as has been agreed. Tonight."

„Tomorrow, Holmes. It would spoil her night's rest with awful anxieties. Besides, I don't know how she will react. It is dangerous, she may not wish to come along. Actually, I hope she will not."

„I have involved her from the beginning Watson, I am not leaving her out on this investigation now. If she decides to come, I will not try to stop her. A close friend of hers is immediately concerned, remember."

„I know…and still I have doubts about her presence on this case!" Watson declared suddenly, his tone somewhat raised above his usual pitch.

Holmes looked at him, surprised. „What is the matter? So far, she has come to no harm. I have been able to keep her safe. You can ask her if you won't take my word for it."

The doctor stopped in the middle of the path, and turned around. „It is not only her physical well-being I am concerned about, Holmes!"

Aha. So this was the way the wind was blowing.

„Well?"

Watson drew breath trenchantly. „Don`t you think she looks a lot like Kitty?"

„It is possible. I hadn't thought, but yes."

„And you are aware she has only just turned twenty-one this year, aren't you?"

He raised an eyebrow. „What exactly are you implying, doctor?"

„Why - „ Watson raised his hands, a strange gesture of helplessness. „perhaps what I want to say is, I think you may be trying to jump the stile, old boy!"

He remained in exactly the same spot, unmoved. „Do you really think so?"

„Yes", John Watson said, firmly.

He set in motion again, continued on their way. „Thank you, doctor. I will reflect on this", he promised vaguely. Behind his back, Watson sent a prayer of thanks heavenwards.

 **Hullo guys!**

 **The story draws closer to its apex, but somehow you don't seem all that keen. I know, of course, the nature of sequels. They can hardly ever fulfill the promise of Part I. So the question I am asking is this: Should I discontinue the story? Maybe it is just not good, and when I know it I can live with that. Only, without any reaction at all, it is kind of hard to determine what to do.**

 **Any thoughts on this?**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	28. Chapter 28

**Whatever happened to Madame Zhao**

 **„** **I resolved/ not to defer; hunger and thirst at once/ powerful persuaders, quickened at the scent/ of that alluring fruit, urged me so keen."**

 **Paradise Lost**

Mr. Holmes and Uncle John returned in daylight, or rather, when daylight just threatened to give up the ghost. I had removed my things to the former nursery, so Uncle John should have the use of the guest room, and waited for the men to come home.

I was still unsure about the meaning of Holmes' trip to town, emerald tie and all. Also, the presence of Uncle John, much as I welcomed it, seemed to require some explanation. If Holmes had felt uncomfortable with me on our journey here, now there was Mrs. Hudson to act as a buffer when our tempers rose, or worse, a twisted sense of mutual attraction established itself between us.

So there had to be more to the recent developments. I asked the landlady for her sewing things, stitching away by the fire until I heard their voices in the entrance. Mr. Holmes was laughing, and altogether, they seemed to be in the best of spirits. Splendid.

I rose to stand next to the fireplace, hands folded in front of my skirts. When the men came in, no doubt in search of a smoke and the comfort of easy chairs, their laughter died. A brief silence fell, during which I took care neither to move nor to speak.

„Fanny!" Mr. Holmes finally called out. He seemed drunk with fresh air and the company of his best and only friend, but he was becoming sober swiftly under my earnest gaze. „We had been wondering where you had concealed yourself. Why didn't you take advantage of these last rays of sun? We'll experience a painful shortage of those before long."

I ignored him. „I moved your things to the guest room, Uncle John, and I built a fire. Hopefully you'll be comfortable there."

„Thank you, my child." Smiling his cautious smile, Uncle John removed his gloves and put them on Holmes' overflowing work desk.

I felt they wished me gone, away from their exclusively male sphere of calm and comfort. It was a nuisance having me here, an inhibition to their talk, their reciprocal candour. Holmes' hand was hovering over the whisky decanter, uncertain whether to go ahead or to make concessions to the female society. Uncle John sat uncomfortably on the edge of the desk, as though the club seat seemed inappropriate as long as I remained standing. They made me want to laugh.

However, I had no regard for their visible discomfort. Loudly and clearly, I said: „Well? What now?"

Uncle John fidgeted on his inconvenient seat. Holmes abandoned the decanter, and slowly turned around to face me. The glow of the fire lit up his face, the insinuation of a smile that tugged the corners of his mouth.

I crossed my arms. „Don't ye try beating about the bush. I would like ter know why the three of us are here tonight, and what yer intentions are as regards the investigation o' the case - my case, you might say, for I may well be the closest acquaintance Madame Zhao can claim in all o' Europe. I trust it is wiv some justification that I ask to be ta'en into yer confidence."

Mr. Holmes' smile broadened, and after all, he reached for a tray with glasses on it, and placed it next to the decanter. „Fanny…."

„Holmes!" Uncle John gave him a reproachful glance, lifting an eyebrow. „Didn't we agree…?"

„No, no, it must be tonight, Watson. As you see, your former warden is no longer someone you can keep under your control and protection all of the time. If she asks for our confidence, I do believe she has a claim to it, and delaying for another day will, I am afraid, not change the facts."

I did not exactly follow him, as they had to all intents and purposes had a preceding discussion in private, but I forbore to speak, for the tenor of his words seemed to acknowledge my wish to be confided in. Also, Uncle John gave up his protest, and with a frown looked on as his best friend poured whiskey into three glasses, and passed them around.

I have rarely been offered a strong drink by a gentleman - but the occasion had a feel not of celebration, but rather, of anticipating something dark, of bracing ourselves for what was to come. But what was it? What _could_ it be?

Holmes raised his glass in silence, and as we followed his example, my eyes met his. I thought I saw - well, maybe not approval, but perhaps acceptance. His words had not been void, he did recognize my rights. It did me a world of good to see that.

The three of us drank in silence, as though we had just taken a solemn vow of some sort. For a passing moment, I wondered whether I had been wise to press whatever was coming now…somehow, it felt like there was no going back from this point, like having committed to something greater than anyone of us was able to realize on their own.

„Frances", Mr. Holmes said, set down his glass and slowly stepped into the middle of the room. It seemed smaller with him in it, his head only a few inches from the low ceiling of the old cottage. „You spoke of investigating the case of your missing friend - the case of the orb. Well, I can tell you here and now; it does not need more investigating. I have solved it, and I believe I solved it a while ago. Only, I had not been brave enough to admit it…I… _hoped_ I were seeing snakes…"

He paused to bite his thumb, and with rising alarm I recognized how nervous he was - Sherlock Holmes afraid! What foe could possibly be so great, so terrible, as to bring about this result? Who but a Professor Moriarty, risen from the dead, had the power to inspire this man with something even akin to fear?

I clawed my hand around my glass, astonished on some remote level of my conscience that it didn't break. My mouth formed the words a couple of times ere I found the breath to quietly say: „Tell me! I wanna know all, I do. Please."

He drew his brows together, and flashed me another smile. „Alright. I will recount to you the events as they fell, from the beginning. And I will tell them from the perspective of Madame Zhao, a woman, I came to believe, not only of a sharp eye, but incredible fortitude."

He spread his long hands, whose pallor was alleviated by the reflection of the fire, taking a moment to collect himself. Then he started talking again, in a low, calm, matter-of-fact tone.

„It is four weeks hence that Madame receives the King's Orb for restoration after the attack on it in the Louvre. The golden band around its midst is dented, and a few precious stones have come off. It is not professionally a great challenge for Madame, who has carried out much more difficult tasks in her time. But the honor is great, she is aware of that, and the trust put in her person by the government, almost immeasurable."

„Madame works on the Orb every day at home, in her workshop. Her commissioners have seen to it that she is lavishly equipped with all the materials she can possibly need for restoration - gold, pearls, gems. Madame is acutely vigilant. She probably takes the treasure with her when going out, hidden on her person. One day on her way home from the shops or the market, she thinks she can see someone following her."

„Madame is not quite sure. She takes extra care during the following days, going out for short trips into Montmartre. Her suspicions prove correct. There is not only the one, but there are several men shadowing her. She never sees them close up, they keep their distance. Only one of them she can identify, because he walks pidgeon-toed."

„The men begin to loiter in her street. They begin to be less discrete, they follow her more and more obviously. Madame knows they can only have one objective: The gem in her possession. So she makes a plan. Staying up late one night, she uses her provisions to fashion a second orb - not good enough to fool anyone who knows the original, but with a similitude that could deceive a lay person."

„Now that a counterfeit is created, the real orb has to disappear. But how? The followers have become so intrusive madame is hesitant to leave her apartment at all. She has reason to believe that even her mail is being ransacked. Then one day, she is in luck. Her friend, a young tailor's employee, drops by. She does not want to get her into danger, so she forbears imparting knowledge or sharing her anxieties. Much rather, she conceals the orb in a gift that is pressed on the unwitting young friend - a gift she knows is little welcome in itself and will remain unopened till doomsday."

„With the real orb hidden away, madame is free to think about her own safety. She makes up her mind to call on the police, more especially M. Simon, who together with the government officials, has delivered the King's Orb into her keeping. At the Surété, she is allowed into his office, but before the interview begins, the two are interrupted. André Dulage pops in to make some report or other to his superior. Afterwards, Madame Zhao makes a quick excuse for coming, and leaves the Surété in a hurry. During the short interview, she has noticed one thing: Superintendent Dulage is walking pidgeon-toed."

„André Dulage!" It burst from my lips before I could check myself. He motioned me to maintain silence, and continued:

„She recognizes him as one of the men who are following her. Madame is frightened. She realizes the police is not to be trusted. She determines to lay a false trail for them: She manages to get the counterfeit into the keeping of her cab driver, who shall hide it at St. Lazare train station for her. With a clever trick, she herself escapes the grasp of the pursuers."

„Now the last part of the game is to get somebody on the trail of the false orb. As soon as it is discovered, so she hopes, the public will be informed and the criminal schemer behind this conspiracy will stop looking for it. Or the schemer will find it himself, and be fooled by it. All this is in case that she herself should disappear - which she knows she probably will, sooner or later."

„So what does she do? She makes contact again with the young tailor. She meets her in public, so that her pursuers can overhear all she tells her - no information shall pass on to her friend alone, lest she be jeopardized by it. Madame drops mysterious allusions to health, and to St. Lazare. Her hope is that the pursuers will be put on the trail of the false orb - whereas her friend Fanny will take her hints at health and tea drinking as an occasion to open the unwanted present, and find what is hidden within."

„Then comes the night when the followers take hold of her. It has been two weeks since Madame received the Orb. She is alone in her flat. The fight is quick and easy. Even so, the intruders play havoc with Madame's flat, in search of the Orb that is no longer there. Madame refuses to tell where she has hidden it. So they take her with them, to the lair of their master. And there she still is, as we wish to believe, hale and alive."

I gasped. Uncle John, however, seemed little moved. He must have heard this whole revelation before me. But to me, confronted with it like this, it seemed incredible.

„But - the police!" I stammered. „Who on earth could have the power to command the Sûrété? Politicians, maybe? Do you think Félix Faure has something to do with it?"

„No." He shook his head. „Besides, I doubt the whole of the Sûrété is involved in the conspiracy. It is just a fraction, namely the men around Simon, that has been corrupted."

„Still!" I protested. „These men are select. They go through a process of screening and filtering. Their loyalties have been put to the test a hundred times. It is just not thinkable they would betray the authorities!"

„Perhaps", Holmes opined, scrutinizing his nails squint-eyed, „The Sûrété would be well advised to introduce the hundred and first test of loyalty in the future."

„I, too, found it hard to believe at first, child", Uncle John sailed in to even out the way into acquiescence for me.

„No, no, I can't believe it." In frustration, I ran my hand to my loosely hanging hair. I had to think of André Dulage, that nice, good-looking young man, of whom the girls at Madame Martinez' said that he was my suitor…

„Holmes, you must be mista'en. You would need a lot o' money, a lot o' power, a lot o' _persuasiveness_ to woo these men away from their sworn allegiance. Whom could you imagine that has such capacities, and that is crazy enough to employ them for the sake of a little ball with gems stuck on it?"

„Frances!" He hissed. „It is not the _gem_ we are talking about! At least not for its own sake, but it actually constitutes infinitely more than its material value. It is a national symbol! Taking it away from its lawful possessor - „

„Wait!" I raised my index, excited with a sudden idea. „When you went up to London yesterday, in yer morning suit and with an emerald pin in yer tie….did you pay a visit to the Orb's, well, lawful possessor?"

He remained silent, but inclined his head solemnly.

I exhaled deeply. „So you fink there is actually someone who hates her enough to do this to `er?"

„To her…and to me, for this person knows I would be commissioned with the Orb's recovery, and wants to see me fail miserably. That you would come into play probably was nothing he had forseen; putting your friend to harm is just an agreeable side effect from his point of view."

My face was distorted with abhorrence. „Who is it?"

The men traded a quick glance. Holmes nodded, and Uncle John quickly scribbled something on a strip of paper, turned it around and scribbles something on the backside. He passed it on to Holmes, who passed it on to me.

„Read", he said calmly.

I glanced down at the piece of paper and read:

 **Tom Rhys-Folmec**

„Er," I said introspectively.

„Turn it around", he said.

I did as he said and transformed into a pillar of salt.

 **Hello!**

 **You abominable readers! Anyways. I just could not abandon the story. It would spook around my head and so I took my notebook and wrote it down. Now I feel 100 percent better.**

 **Maybe some ppl will still be interested to find out what happens at the very end, which is now pretty close at hand. I am planning some sort of epic showdown, and then, as promised, the happy end. Cool?**

 **See you soon!**

 **LOve, Mrs. F**


	29. Chapter 29

**From the Shadows**

 **„** **These two are brethren, Adam, and to come/ Out of thy loins; th'unjust the just hath slain/ for envy that his brother's offering found/ from heav'n acceptance, but the bloody act/ will be avenged"**

 **Paradise Lost**

It was amazing how the two words on the backside of the paper made my legs shorter, my face more freckled. My hair seemed to gather into a pony tail, and from the light draught, I could feel how short my skirt was, only just touching the knees.

I appeared to wander down a hall - stately and solemn, expensive, but with a certain neglect that betrayed the fact it was not a real home, just a temporary solution. My Uncle Jonathan's house. I could see Louise, his maid, go to answer the door, and I slid behind the stairs noiselessly, as ghosts would.

Louise's high, intimidated voice rang in my ears, together with the icy inflection of the man in our anteroom. She cowered back, and receded to open the door into the parlour. „A visitor for you, Madam."

„I won't see anyone now, Louise", my aunt Cathy wearily replied.

„But the gentleman is most insistent, madam!"

„Who is the gentleman? One of our regular callers?"

„Oh no, Madam."

„Did he give a name, then?"

„Yes, madam. Mr. Holmes, Madam."

A brief pause. Then: „Where is he?"

„In the anteroom, madam. I told him you had gone out, but…"

„Show him in", Aunt Cathy said with sudden resolution.

Louise extended her arm to signal the caller that he should step closer. He passed my hiding place, and I felt the hair rise on my nape as he did: A cold flow of air seemed to accompany him, and from the corner of my eye, he seemed to float rather than walk….he was tall and grey, meagre like a preying animal, moving stealthily, noiselessly. I dared look neither too closely, nor too far up where his face would be, so I peered down to the floor, to the patent leather shoes on his feet. A freezing hand seemed to clutch my heart with a firm grip, and I held my breath as he disappeared into the parlour.

Louise made her exit as soon as at all possible. She was frightened, I could see it, she sensed the danger virtually emanating from this creature with the same intensity as I did. But I did not take to flight. Instead, I drew near the closed door. My head needed to bow just a little to be one hight with the keyhole.

My Aunt Cathy had given an audible start at the appearance of her caller. „You! What are you doin' `ere!"

„I am not on a social visit, as you may have guessed, Miss Winter."

oooOOOooo

My eyes, from staring into void space, lowered to the slip of paper in my lap only with a tremendous effort of will. My eyes squinted, but the words on this side of the paper remained the same:

 **Mycroft Holmes**

Tom Rhys-Folmec; just with the letters in an alternate order. That factitious name. How could nobody have seen it earlier?

I breathed heavily. There it was again, the hand, freezing cold, that was laid around my palpitating heart. I felt the approach of a panic, and breathed quicker, quicker, ever accelerating, until I felt a warm, dry hand on my arm. Uncle John had stepped to my side, caring and solicitous as ever.

„Calm down, Fanny. I apologize, I had not foreseen this would have such an effect on you." He squatted down in front of my seat, passing a hand over my hair and looking into my face earnestly.

I forced a smile. Poor Uncle John. How could he have known I had these recollections? He had assumed Mycroft Holmes would be little more to me than a name, and had reckoned on my surprise, but not on the horror that no doubt had been reflected by my eyes.

„I am sorry…I…I'll be me own mistress again presently. It's jus' - so unexpected…" I glanced above his shoulder to where Holmes lightly rested against his writing desk. Though this could not be news to him, his face was wan, and he watched me steadily, as though something were expected from me, as soon as I had recovered from the shock. Something I-knew-not-what, but it could not possibly be good.

I swallowed. „You will have ter explain", I croaked weakly, dimly wondering whether another drink would not be in order now. „I don't follow. How does `e come into all of this? The last that I `eard was that `e `ad fallen from grace - `er Majesty's grace - and was divested o` `is functions and `is power."

Holmes seemed to see right through me, for he had turned aside to refill my whisky glass. „A man like my brother", he said with a contemplative air, „is never really stripped of his powers. If he fails in one place, well, he starts afresh in another. He needs neither royal nor familial aid to do so - though you'd be wrong to assume that he did not foster a desire to take revenge; revenge on those who gave offence to his _amour propre._ This is why he engaged some wretch to create havoc at the Louvre museum, and to cause damage to the King's Orb - a royal possession. This is also why he established an influence in the Parisian metropolitan police, and it is equally the reason why he tried, with their help, to steal the treasure. He knew that with a British national heirloom and the prestige of the French State at stake, I would be called in at some point."

„So this is basically a campaign o' vengeance?" I could scarce believe it. It sounded too extravagant, too romanesque for this prosaic world.

„Yes", he replied simply, and handed me the glass. „You don't know Mycroft, Fanny, and it probably is for the best. But you may rely on one thing, and that is, that after the detriment I did him, he can never be happy unless I am unhappy. The exalted personage that I consulted with yesterday is of like opinion. His aim, ultimately, is to destroy me, and I think I am not exaggerating if I say any means through which he can achieve it will be acceptable."

I quietly sat a minute, trying to digest that. Uncle John had risen from his squatting position, and, rubbing his back, also helped himself to another drink. If there were more revelations pending, it would end up making us a bunch of hopeless alcoholics I thought, smiling absurdly. But my inapposite merriment died when I thought of Madame Zhao. No friend of mine ought to be delivered into Mycroft Holmes' power…a power, I suspected, whose horrors weren't tempered by too great a predisposition for mercy.

My head flew up. „Where is he?" I inquired sharply. „That `ouse, o`er yonder in the fields…it belongs to `im?"

„So it would seem", Uncle John cautiously said.

„ - but he merely owns it to spy on me", Holmes interrupted. „There is nobody there at present. I made sure of that. He - or somebody in his pay - has been there not too long ago. I suppose he was curious what steps I would take, and went out of his way to keep an eye on my movements."

„But where is `e now? An' more importantly: Where is Madame Zhao?" I insisted. „Do you fink they are somewhere close to `ere?" And the thought that my missing friend might be near me without knowing it suffused me warmly. We would find her, no matter how, no matter what!

Holmes gravely shook his head. „I should doubt it. There is an official ban on Mycroft. He must not enter the United Kingdom. He had to buy this house under a false name and, it is to expected, he comes and goes by means of a fake passport. However, his citizenship in this country has been annulled. I presume he succeeded in acquiring the French citizenship, by courtesy of our family connection. But there is no resident in Paris either under his own name or under that of Rhys-Folmec. I have made inquiries."

„He might reside there un`er a third assumed identity!" I protested. „It is easy, blending in wiv the great, anonymous masses…."

„That is not altogether impossible. But I had another theory."

„Yes?"

Holmes inhaled deeply. The two men exchanged a long glance, before Uncle John, as it seemed, gave him leave to reply.

„There is a little village in Normandy. It has a castle nearby, well, a manor-house if you will, that the Vernet family can lay some claim to. However, nobody ever showed much interest in the quite expensive enterprise of sanifying this ancient monstrum, so inconveniently situated in the middle of nowhere. Thus, it has been left to slowly crumble away for the last hundred years or so. I myself have been there only once. My grandmother showed it to me when we were holidaying by the seaside. But even then, it was not safe to step inside, so we only looked at its mouldy facade, and then took to our heels. Mycroft, however, might relish the atmosphere enough to invest a pretty penny…it is an admirable hideaway."

I looked at his eyes, gleaming with eagerness, and a slight suspicion crept into my heart - wasn't he just working himself up into an idée fixe? „`e might, and then again, `e might not. This is pure speculation", I ventured, uneasily.

Uncle John shook his head. „Not anymore. A telegram was sent to the mayor of Merveille-en-Terre, under a fictitious name and pretext naturally. The old castle is tenanted by some offspring of the Vernet family, and he has taken up considerable renovation measures, which is why the estate has been spaciously enclosed."

I closed my eyes for a second. A vision of the sea, and gulls, and an old, forbidding Norman structure, engulfed me. Oh Madame! Help is near!

„It does sound fairly conclusive", was, however, the only reply I gave.

„It does, doesn't it?" Uncle John started filling his pipe, and Holmes, as if by reflex, did the same. „And what is more, a violent breaking into the Hôtel Meurice yesterday has been communicated by the newspapers, so we may safely assume that the counterfeit Madame crafted is now in Normandy as well - but I spurn the idea that as astute a man as Mycroft can be deceived through such an imposture. Which means that your friend, if she is still alive, might be in considerable danger."

I felt the color drain from my face, and he hurried to add: „But we mustn't assume the worst. It is highly likely Mycroft will avail himself of her expertise until the real Orb is found."

„Yeah, but what can we do?" In exasperation, I tore at my hair. „There is no proof of anything. An' the French police ain't reliable. What can we possibly _do_?"

Holmes lowered the hand that held his pipe. The other hand dived into his waistcoat pocket and extracted the King's Orb. Both Uncle John and I started at its splendor - in the fire light, the valuable stones sparkled intensely, and in more varied hues than ever. It was so beautiful, but, in a sense, so deadly. Our eyes followed closely as Holmes tossed it up into the air, and caught it again in his hand.

„We'll bring him this."

„Bring him - !" I believe my mouth fell open. Next to me, Uncle John remained quite calm. He had doubtlessly been let in on the plan beforehand.

„Why, yes. It is the gem he wants, and my head. I can serve him with both. Why should any other party continue to suffer, if this is completely between us? No, no. No more breaking-in, no more corruption and abduction: He shall have what he wants, and see what good it will do him. Oh, you need not imagine I will surrender to him without a struggle," he replied to my expression, blatantly aghast at his derring-do. „He shall get his deserts, if I am man enough to give them to him. And if your friend or other innocent hostages be in his power, I shall be damned if I stand by inactively. But I will no longer hide, or run away from him. I am quite tired of it."

„I see." I rose from my seat, and began roaming the room in the same pointless manner as he would, occasionally. „And when you say that _we_ shall bring 'im the Orb - alongside with yer loaf - I suppose ya uses a figure of speech. Ya means that I an' Uncle John `ere shall continue running an' `iding till one o' you `as succeeded in dashing the other one's brain awt. Now that's a real fine plan, I must admit!"

I flashed an angry look at him. How could he think we would ever agree to such a scheme? We of all people, we, who to all intents and purposes were the closest associates he had in this world! Did he think we could live with letting him go, unprotected and at his own risk? It was the pink of inconsideration!

To my surprise, however, Sherlock Holmes returned my look steadily. „You mistake my meaning, Frances. I am not trying to delude you by means of rhetorics. When I approach my worst enemy - and he is, all others notwithstanding! - then I would like to do so fully equipped, and with the use of both my right and my left hand."

He drew nearer, extending the said members to us. Uncle John glanced at me hesitantly, doubtfully. We were not made out to be heroes - we had not the requirements for a mission of this dimension. But that was of no importance, and I told him as much, without words. It was not that I mistook the chances of being put to death. I had had my impression of Mycroft, and it was clear-cut. But Holmes, Uncle John and I, we were allies, yes, even kindred in a way. And we were left over.…two widowers, and a friendless woman. If we died, who would be there to mourn?

He seemed to relent, and yielded his hand to me. I enclosed it firmly with mine. With the other one, I reached out to meet Holmes' left, and our fingers locked solemnly. Then the men joined their hands together, and the agreement had been sealed. We remained like this for a minute or so, thinking, I believe, similar thoughts. Then we let go, and the little smoky room seemed detached from this universe: Like a frail capsule it carried us though time and space, and everyone in it lived and re-lived the past and present that led up to an incalculable and forbidding future.

 **Hullo!**

 **So the old enemy has risen again! Those who read „A study in wedlock" will remember how Mycroft's criminal deeds were disclosed by his brother, whereupon he lost his government post and disappeared from the political stage. Now we know what he has been up to since: rebuilding an old Norman fort and brooding over sinister plans for vengeance.**

 **Do our heroes stand the least chance against such a formidable enemy? We shall see soon!**

 **Love, Mrs. F.**


	30. Chapter 30

**Quiet before the storm**

 **„** **We war, if war be best, or to regain/ Or own right lost: him to unthrone we then/ May hope when everlasting Fate shall yield/ to fickle chance, and Chaos judge the strife."**

 **Paradise Lost**

The wind was blowing in my face the very instant I got off the carriage. It was very reviving, and smacked of the sea. It was also very detrimental to my hair-do. Thick strands came loose and fluttered around my ears wildly. I shoved them beneath my hat, and gave instructions for my luggage.

It was a smallish provincial hotel in a smallish provincial town, so Holmes had decided beforehand that a group of three, so obviously mismatched in age, sex and language (he pretended to mean by that the varying degrees to which we were fluent in French, but I knew his true meaning!) would instantly arouse curiosity. Therefore, we had made up our minds to arrive independently, each one an alleged stranger to the other two.

I was second, and spied Uncle John in the lounge as I passed by the open door. Having checked in and making for the stair, I heard Holmes' strident voice and turned my head as if annoyed by the voluble intruder: He walked in as if he owned the whole place, impersonating some nouveau-riche American expatriate. To achieve this, he did quite horrible things to his French pronunciation.

I hid a grin, and proceeded to my room, whence my bags had already been taken. After something more than an hour, there was a secretive knock on my door, and I opened it briefly, just long enough for the men to slip in.

„Fanny! Thank God we did not go for the wrong door." Uncle John sighed, and at my invitation sat down on the bed. He looked worn out, or maybe it was just the fact that he had parted with his good old mustache, because Holmes found him less recognizable without it. And being recognized was not something we were too keen on.

As for Holmes himself, he did not contribute to our exchange, but instead worked his jaw as if to get rid of the adopted accent. He tossed something onto the counterpane - an outdated sightseeing guide of the region. I snatched it up and leafed through it. There was a map of a Norman Castle, close to the adjoining village of Merveille-sur-Terre.

„I take it this page is what we should be lookin' at." I held the page up with both hands, nodding at the map. Holmes restricted himself to nodding. „Well, it don't give too many details. Jus' the location, an' the approximate ground view o' the structure."

Uncle John squinted his eyes. „Why, the grounds must be extensive! Look at the scale!"

„Yeah, an' there's a moat as well. That is, if Mycroft hasn't had it filled up", I commented. „Then we have dungeons of a sort, and a ground and first floor, crowned by a crenellated battlement. The whole thing really ain't that `igh."

Holmes nodded. He was getting on my nerves. „I say, `ave you swallowed yer tongue?" I snapped. „ `cause I daresay we shall need a plan `ow ter get inside these old walls. Maybe it would be `o some help if ya could put that famous brain o` yers to use!"

He seemed surprised first, then a little put out. „Well, maybe I should like to hear your view first, Frances. You must have pondered the question yourself, if you address it in this fashion. Have you devised a strategem that will get us past brother Mycroft's henchmen? Does it involve tunneling underneath the moat, or firing a grapnel across the crenellations?"

I crossed my arms over my chest, looking daggers at him. Watson cleared his throat and hurried to intervene.

„This is not the time for jokes, old boy. Frances is right, we need a plan how to invade this old structure, and I trust the options mentioned by you are outdated by at least a thousand years. Also, Mycroft will be familiar with more or less all the modes of infiltration that have been invented since. You will have to come up with something quite original, I'll presume."

Holmes smiled fleetingly. It passed so quickly that it hardly seemed worth the trouble, smiling at all. „Original, doctor? What sort of originality do you have in mind?"

„Oh, I don't know." Uncle John shrugged, his arms dangling. He looked helpless, and I could have kicked Holmes for letting us twist in the wind. It was obvious he had envisioned some course of action. „We might impersonate insiders, perhaps. Or we could inveigle our way into the fort by concealing ourselves in deliveries that are taken inside…they _must_ require regular supplies …."

Holmes' brow had climbed higher and higher during his friend's suggestion making. I really had to contain myself so as not to allow my anger free reign. He was so full of himself! How had Uncle John suffered this all these years without kicking the man just _once_?

The brow, meanwhile, had reached the topmost elevation. „My dear doctor, assuming a character to get to otherwise inaccessible places is a trick now so often played by me that Mycroft would not only not be taken in, he would anticipate it. As to being bundled up somewhere inside provision packaging destined for the fort, I can warm neither to the debasement nor the asphyxiation aspect. No, no, no, none of that is very feasible, I'm afraid."

„Then what is?" Uncle John asked patiently. „To delude Mycroft, it would have to be a _very_ inventive ruse."

His comrade nodded his agreement. „Indeed. I have pondered this problem extensively. And I have come to the conclusion that we will walk up to his door and ring the bell, or, for lack of one, use to door rapper. Now, is that original enough for you?"

I felt myself mirrored by Uncle John, whose mouth had fallen open.

„Is that all?" I finally managed, and „But, Holmes! Wherefore have I shaved my moustache, if we appear just as ourselves?" The doctor spluttered.

„Because I don't want to give him notice of our arrival!" Holmes snapped, suddenly impatient. „I want the advantage of surprise, and I mean to make full use of it. Mycroft will expect me to trespass - to attempt to burgle him, as I have burgled many lesser foes in the past. My undisguised appearance, however, will unsettle him. He will not know how to react. I may be able to talk him into a bargain…trade myself for the freedom of Madame Zhao, if possible."

The doctor shook his head slowly, chagrined lines burrowing into his forehead. „No, this is not a clever plan, Holmes. It is a suicide mission."

„I agree." I stood beside Uncle John, as if to enhance the power of his argument with our united physical bulk. „Mycroft will kill you."

„Then that can't be helped!" He threw his arms up in the air. „If it means that he will finally be content - that no more evil will come from the warfare of two brothers, that no more innocent lives will be endangered - maybe it is just as well. We've discussed this before, and my point of view is unaltered."

And he turned eyes at us that, quite changed from their usual aspect of a mellow winter sky, gave an impression of steel, or granite. I swallowed, and lowered my eyes. Yes, we had discussed this before, and we had reckoned on danger. Only, we had expected him to devise a clever plan that would give us at least a slim chance. Now what he envisaged sounded like the unconditional surrender he had promised was not his intent. He had wanted to give Mycroft his due, which was certainly something different from delivering himself into his hands voluntarily. Next to me, Uncle John hesitated. It sounded painfully close to pleading when finally said:

„Holmes…old boy…listen…"

„No, no, my mind is quite made up." He gesticulated his annoyance, as though we were fighting about the choice of a new evening suit. „If you decide to still come with me, you can do so, in my opinion, with comparatively little risk on your side. Mycroft bears you no grudge, and neither has he any interest in you. However you, Watson, might be of great value to Madame Zhao, who, if she is still alive, will probably need the ministrations of a physician. You, Fanny, as somebody she knows and trusts, will also be quite indispensable. Together, you must find her and set her free, whilst Mycroft's attention is focused on me."

„But…" Uncle John had not quite given up. „How can you be sure he will even let us in, Holmes?"

„Well, I can. I am what he wants, and I have what he wants." He indicated the pocket of his waistcoat, which bulged slightly, only just enough to inform us that the gem was still in place. „He will admit me, and accept you into the bargain. That is, if you are willing to come."

I traded a glance with Uncle John, and instantly felt that further council was superfluous. The old soldier's determination had crept into his eyes, and his whole expression, brow, mouth, chin and all, advertised his will to follow an old friend into the lion's den - to hell, if necessary. Next, I felt the gaze of both men on me, and realized they were less sure about me. I raised my head, and as a result, they lowered both of theirs, as if ashamed of doubting me.

We remained silent for a moment. Without lifting his eyes, Holmes finally spoke. He only said two words. „Very well." And the tiny, fleeting smile that was his trademark, always touched by a suspicion of pain, swiftly played around his lips.

oooOOOooo

The November wind was blowing darkly at the corner of the small municipal park that I had been told to wait at. Although I had wrapped myself thoroughly, it seemed like a long time before the shadow of a hansom cab emerged from the dusk: Uncle John's cab, hired to pick us up along the way, so that we should not be seen together.

The precaution seemed facetious to me now. The odds did not appear to be in favor of our survival, so why bother with this game of hide-and-seek? But the knowledge that now, I was quite close to Madame Zhao, that I would be able to see her before long, made me abide by every silly order Holmes was pleased to issue. Of course, the possibility that she wasn't alive had crossed my mind - but even though, to gain certainty on that point was infinitely preferable to the current state of ignorance.

I entered the cab in a huff, and remained silent until we had reached the point where Holmes was to embark. Uncle John seemed not disposed toward talking, either. However, as we went around a kerb, and I was suddenly pressed against his side, I distinctly felt a firm, lengthy outline in the pocket of his ulster. So, we were not thoroughly without protection, after all. That gave me an impulse to revive my hopes.

The vehicle stopped and Holmes got on, muffled in a thick coat and scarf that came up to his ears. He gave us a quick nod which Uncle John returned, but I preferred to remain silent, and just stare at him as he sat opposite to us. Was it possible that, apart from my childhood experience of him, I had known this man only a few months? And yet, I was prepared to go toward almost certain destruction with him - whatever he said, I was not convinced Mycroft did not pose a danger for Uncle John and me, though _he_ might well foster illusions. But _I_ had not forgotten this voice, an ineradicable acoustic accompaniment to the visual stimuli of the back of a stair, and patent leather shoes.

Then again, I went not solely for Holmes' sake, of course. There was my friend to consider, and I could hardly allow my foster father to put himself in jeopardy while watching from a safe distance. But! What had not happened between Mr. Sherlock Holmes and me during a short span of time! We had been bitter antagonists, burdened with reciprocal resentments. We had argued, negotiated, circled each other with the deepest distrust. We had finally joined forces. We had become allies. Confidantes. Lovers. Friends.

If it were not for Madame Zhao, if it were not for Uncle John, would I then still be coming along on this abstruse endeavour, would I still put my life at a risk so he would not be alone in this? I knew it would mean self-deception, were I to deny that yes, I still would. I peered at him, into the face beneath the tilted hat, and an intense series of impressions, harvested from our brief time together, flooded my memory. The two of us, locking eyes across the pit at Aunt Mary's burial. Our unexpected confrontation at the Sûrété. He, lifting me from the ladder that led from the church St. Laurent down into the bowels of Paris. Dining together at the Hôtel le Meurice. Holmes balancing on a foot stool to repair the blind of my window. Holmes thrashing the ruffians that had come to threaten me. Holmes, holding me, trying to comfort me as best he could. Holmes. Holmes. Holmes.

Was this to be the very last of nights?

What if it was?

And what if it wasn't?

He could not have heard my thoughts. His faculties, extraordinary as they doubtlessly were, did not extend into the realm of the supernatural. And yet, he seemed to know my feelings as his pupils slowly shifted to capture my gaze, and firmly, but not unkindly, return it. Maybe my sentiments were not very complicated, or original, it is true. Maybe people's sentiments in general aren't. He would know, he'd seen it all before. The guess at my cogitations possibly was an easy one for him.

Could the same thing hold true the other way around? Could I presume to know what moved him at this present instant, could I guess his thoughts as we silently gazed at each other in this state of enforced inaction? I hardly know, and certainly, there has not yet been anyone to claim that his train of thought were anything less than intricate, intransparent, and even inhuman. But then again, I had known him to be human, very human, and outspoken to the degree of bluntness. He was a man, and thought the thoughts of man, my thoughts. Maybe it was just that easy.

The cab halted again, and he broke contact with me. In a low voice, he asked of Watson: „Are you ready, doctor?"

His friend nodded, consenting, as it where, for both of us. We alighted from the cab, and Uncle John put his arm around my shoulder, for the sharp wind was blowing still. From the warm, comforting crook of his elbow, I lifted my gaze to look up at the towering silhouette of a large, formidable castle-like structure, looming before an evening sky that grew darker by the second.

 **Hey Hey! Its getting dangerous now! Within a moment, our heroes shall be within Mycroft's reach. But how will he react to his younger brother's appearance?**

 **Can the trio possibly do any good, or are they just hurrying to meet their doom?**

 **Everything is possible, so stick around and you shall know soon!**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	31. Chapter 31

Fairy land

„All is not lost; the unconquerable will/ and study of revenge, immortal hate/ and courage never to submit or yield:/ And what is else not to be overcome?/ That glory never shall his wrath or might/ extort from me."

Paradise Lost

The old Vernet castle seemed close at hand, however we realized we would have to cover some distance ere we got there. Like a mighty scissors cut, it stood out from the night, with a fleck of light here and there on its facade: Windows illuminated with electricity. Mycroft had certainly made a good job of modernizing the place, although some anachronisms remained. The electric light, for instance, was reflected on an extensive water surface in front of the building - the moat, to be sure.

We had not gone far before we were stopped. Two men in plain clothes, but with unmistakably military bearing, appeared out of nowhere to bar our way. A smart and snappy voice called: „Halt!" and we obeyed, like so many puppets on a string.

I expected the worst when the men drew near for scrutiny, however they seemed kindly disposed towards us. One of them said: „I see you are walkers who have been surprised by the dark. But you must not proceed here. These are private grounds, and I am afraid you are trespassing."

I abided by my instructions to let Holmes do the talking, and stood as if transfixed to the ground as he stepped forward. „You are mistaken, gentlemen. We are here to see Mycroft Holmes."

The men, disciplined though they were, traded a confused look. Either Mycroft did not go by his real name in this place, or it was unusual for people to seek him out. I suspected the latter.

„Are you being expected?" On of the guards finally asked.

„The answer depends on your meaning". Holmes smiled gently. „If you wish to know, do I have an appointment, I must admit, no I don't. However I do not think myself presumptuous in believing that I am, in a way, very much expected by the landlord. Does he happen to be in?"

„Who are you?" The guard asked warily. By now, he could not but have guessed we were not on a courtesy call.

Holmes eyed them unblinkingly. „My name is Sherlock Holmes", he replied, ignoring the subtle alarm that was present in the expressions of both men. „And these are my friend and colleague Dr. Watson, and my niece, Miss Fanny Morris."

There fell a brief silence. It was plain to see the guards would have liked taking private counsel, but had to be content with an exchange of glances. Finally, one who seemed to be senior to the other uttered: „We cannot admit you without an appointment. But if you wish, you can take a seat in the library and wait whether Mr. Holmes will not see you."

He was too much of a soldier to wince under Sherlock's gaze, as no doubt I would have. However, he seemed a trifle uncomfortable as he received the reply: „Thank you so much. We _do_ wish."

oooOOOooo

I seemed to feel many eyes upon us as we were led up to the castle - eyes from the darkness, from the shrubbery and from the windows of the building, both the lit and unlit ones. What were we to expect on the inside? I could not even venture a concrete guess, but anticipated a vague, shapeless darkness.

Another watch approached us at the entrance, but was informed about our identity in whispered tones by our escort. After some to and fro, the watch nodded, and we were being led into the ancient hall of the Vernet family home.

I was, to say the least, surprised. The interior was by no means different from an English manor house. Not that I had much experience of those, but one had heard awed accounts of course, and leafed through glossy magazines. There was the oaken panelling, the paintings on the walls, the potted plants and heavy carpets one would expect from such a place - much in contrast to my prior apprehensions.

However, we did not make a station here, but instead were ushered into an adjoining sitting room, where a bright fire burnt vigorously in the fireplace. I felt the three of us look around as one person - but we were alone. Beside ourselves, there were only the fire, some sofas and books and a table with refreshments.

The men informed us that our arrival would be brought to the landlord's notice, and asked us to wait. Then they left us. I lowered myself onto one of the sofas, feeling faint and apprehensive. The cheerful atmosphere of the room did nothing to disperse my anxiety. I knew we would be face to face with the enemy before long, and the prospect, to speak the truth, turned my stomach.

Holmes, however, leaped into activity as soon as the door had closed behind the plainclothes soldiers, checking the wainscot, the fireplace, the window beyond which the moat reflected the bright illumination of our room. I wondered what he might be looking for, and hoped it was not yet a way to escape.

Uncle John took off his greatcoat, wiping his forehead. „My word! After the chill air of the night, this room seems like an oven. Isn't this large fire a little _de trop_ in a small room such as this?"

I gave him to understand that I, too, began to experience the warmth as a discomfort. My complaint, however, was silenced by an impatient whistle from Holmes' corner of the room. „Fanny, please stop these useless wailings. They are quite an obstacle to my free flow of thought. And you, doctor, had better assist me in devising a plan, rather than moaning like the resident ghost. If we wish to assess the most probable whereabouts of Madame Zhao in this awful place, we ought to do so now, and make the most of the time we have before they come back."

I opened my mouth to protest, but Uncle John was as suave as ever, anticipating any possibility of quarrel. „First things first, Holmes." He stepped over to the table with the beverages, and, without a ruffle, poured a glass of clear water. „My throat is quite parched, and Fanny looks ready to faint. The temperature in this room is abnormal. You will allow us to forestall a heat stroke ere we engage in any effort that requires our mental and physical abilities."

And he handed me the glass of water, a gentleman to the core. I drank while he poured another glass for himself, and, suddenly drowsy, heard Holmes reply: „You are right of course, doctor. I apologize for my incivility, but I must confess this heat is wreaking havoc with my nerves, too."

„And you're not looking too chipper either, old man! Come, have a drink as well. We must gather our strength for what lies ahead of us."

That was the last I can remember of their conversation before I drifted away into a deep, deep slumber.

oooOOOooo

When the lids of my eyes lifted again, the oppressive heat had faded, and left behind a merely agreeable warmth. Recognizing my surroundings, and experiencing a sudden reflux of recollections, I started, and sat up.

The fire had died down; and the room was dipped into a faint, almost spectral light….the light of very early morning, before the rise of the sun. The curtains had not been drawn, and the dark night outside had passed and ceded room to a foggy, bluish state of transition, a state of utter stillness.

By my side, I spied an arm in a shirt sleeve thrown negligently across the sofa that I was lying on, the rest of the man on the floor, slumped against the piece of furniture. Another motionless form was sprawled across the chaiselongue opposite to the sofa, a dark head lolling against the backrest and threatening to drop aside and go over the edge.

My heart leaped with alarm, and I rose from the sofa swiftly, my numb legs notwithstanding. I knelt down next to Uncle John, passing a hand over his forehead. „Uncle John! Uncle John, please waike up!"

He sighed in his sleep, but could not be stirred. I turned around, and dropped to my knees next to the chaiselongue. I reached for the sleeping form, but recoiled bashfully from this violation of privacy: His face, bare of expression, looked so different from what I knew it to be like during day time. Dark lashes cast bluish shadows onto skin whose pallor seemed increased by the ghostly illumination. The pupils behind the closed eyelids were in constant motion, left-right, left-right, without a pause. He was sleeping profoundly, maybe dreaming.

A panic seized me, a panic because all of this _was_ like an evil dream, with me as the only conscious agent among breathing corpses. And somewhere, somewhere near me, this unspeakable dread! Was he asleep, too? On top of a mound of treasures maybe, like a dragon on his hoard? Was it for me to seek him out, unaided?

No, no, my thoughts were confused, an aftereffect from the drug we had no doubt been tricked to ingest. There was no magic in this sleep, or anywhere in this blasted old house. I reached for the left arm of the sleeper, carelessly thrown above his head, and yanked it powerfully. „Waike up!"

His hand formed claws, gathered against his face protectively. He gasped, blinked, and, recognizing me, relaxed. „Frances."

He swung his legs over the rim of the chaiselongue, getting into a sitting position. His hand pressed to the spot where his heart was, he inhaled deeply, cast a sideways look at me, and laughed. „This was a nasty business! I can see Watson has been affected by it as well."

„You're damn lucky I woke up! Who knows what was ter become o' us!"

He didn't heed my words, but stepped over to where the doctor lay huddled on the floor, and clapped his hands together close to his ear. My face writhed with the resounding clap, for I could imagine the agony it momentarily caused the elderly man, who sped up from the floor and looked around frantically, pressing both hands against his ringing ears.

„There, there! What old women we have been. Every child knows better than to eat or drink in fairy land", Holmes sneered. He had recovered more quickly than the doctor, who brushed his hands down his clothes and wiped the hair away from his forehead.

„Well, this is `ardly fairy land we've got ourselves into", I remarked drily. „And I would recommend increased vigilance to all of us, from now on. We're lucky nobody seems to `ave noticed our momentary defencelessness."

„I shouldn't say so", Mr. Holmes returned calmly, reaching into his waist coat. „If I am not much mistaken, I had a revolver in here, and the King's Orb. Both are gone."

„My…!" Uncle John mechanically mimicked the movement. „My weapon is gone, too!"

„What?" I could not believe my words. Did that mean we had lost our most important trump, and were without armament at that?

„How long have we slept?"

„It is hard to ascertain." Holmes stepped toward the window and looked out over the still surface of the moat. „Some five or six hours. It is early morning. Mycroft will be up, he requires little sleep."

„Maybe we had better go, if he will let us." Uncle John's visage was seriously troubled. „He has demonstrated his superiority, maybe he'll be content with that. Consider, he could easily have taken our lives, but chose not to. We ought to take this as a warning, and be gone."

„Go away? And Madame Zhao?" I tossed my head, sensing something like disdain for his cautious reasoning. Holmes, also, did not seem to cherish the idea of Mycroft having demonstrated superiority and practiced mercy on us. How could we possibly go, and live with this defeat?

Suddenly, I formed a resolution. „I'll find `er."

I crossed over to the door, but was stopped before I could get there.

„No." Holmes peered down at me sharply, his hand on my arm. „We shall go together. John?"

„Holmes…" Uncle John seemed torn between his options. „With our revolvers, this errand had seemed stupid and dangerous enough. Deprived of them as we now are, we don't stand the shred of a chance against those guards."

„Then I am afraid Fanny and I are alone in this", Holmes replied coldly.

Uncle John shook his head with an impatient click of the tongue. „Of course you aren't."

A smile ghosted over the lips of the great detective. „Splendid! Come along, then."

oooOOOooo

We left the library on tiptoe, and re-entered the vast hall we had crossed on the preceding evening. A steep, and in every respect daunting set of stairs rose in front of our eyes, indicating the way to the upper floors. With hesitation, I exchanged a glance with Holmes, but he just nodded, and made to go ahead.

We followed him, first I and then Uncle John, treading the heavily carpeted stairs gently. Although my heart seemed to be beating in my throat, I could not help wondering at the excellent taste of the fittings, the painted tableaus that were our company all the way up to the first floor. Everything was exceedingly pricey and I dimly wondered how Mycroft could have become such a rich man. Better not ask, though.

We had reached the landing, and Holmes stopped and turned around, his index placed over his lips and brows drawn together as a warning to maintain silence. From somewhere, a small sound was to be heard, a low and yet unmistakably human sound…was that crying? Or the sighs of a vexed soul?

There was a lengthy corridor, with an imposing carved door at the farther end. At every step that we advanced, the small, mournful sound became more distinct. Also, another sound was to be heard: A high, tinkling voice, like glasses touching, unspeakably brilliant and cold. I felt the hair rise on my nape: Yes, it was him, undoubtedly him, and the person he was talking to Madame Zhao, my Madame!

We halted just short of the paneled door, inclining our heads so as to be able to hear the most. Inside the room, Mycroft softly continued to speak. „I am very grateful to you, my dear…very grateful. After all these months of bad news - frustrating to me as well as to you, believe me! - finally you are able to give me good news. The gem is genuine, you say?"

There was an insecure little whimper, which obviously did not satisfy him. „It is, or isn't it? I'm afraid you will have to make up your mind!"

There was a ferocious whack, and a loud shriek. I pressed my eyes closed, and opening them again, found Sherlock's gaze upon me. There was an expression in his eyes I had not heretofore experienced with him - was that sympathy?

Mycroft, meanwhile, seemed to have received the affirmative answer, for he chuckled his content. „Excellent. It is only too bad, too bad my dear, that now your services have become dispensable to me. I could have you killed here on the spot, you know that? Only, there is people who rather wish I hadn't. Let's humor their quirks, what do you think? Yes. My idea exactly."

There was a tiny pause, before the tinkling voice called out: „Come in, Sherlock. Come right in."

 **Hiya!**

 **I used the last words because I seem to recall Mycroft saying that somewhere in the Canon. Can't remember where, though. I looked up the Greek Interpreter, that's not it.**

 **Haha. Ok, now we're there. Right there in the heart of Mycroft's lair, with him separated from our heroes only by a door. And he is not alone.**

 **We shall see what happens, aight?**

 **Love, Mr. F**


	32. Chapter 32

**Madhouse**

 **„** **Ingrate, he had of me/ all he could have, I made him just and right/ sufficient to have stood, though free to fall."**

 **Paradise Lost**

I inhaled sharply, and turned my head to face Sherlock. His expression was grim and determined. Next to him, Uncle John's face had been drained of colour. He and I had been utterly taken by surprise, Sherlock less so. Naturally he would know what his kin was capable of, especially his brother.

With a brusque movement, he pushed open the door and stepped into the room, ahead of us. Uncle John followed with less confidence, though he was putting on a brave face. I filed in last, not conscious of any degree of fortitude, just mimicking the demeanor of my companions like an unwitting machine.

The room we entered had a high ceiling, and was surprisingly spacious. However, the things it contained were few. Against the rear wall, within an area that was one step elevated from the rest of the room, rose a high and massive bureau. Above that, two large paintings had been hung side by side. In a far corner from the bureau, there was a tall appliance of strangely medieval aspect: A frame, filled to mid-hight with a wooden panel, from which a pair of handcuffs dangled. Due to the panel, I could not see behind the appliance; could only see the handcuffs above it, and the pair of small, brownish, withered hands locked up in them.

With a shriek, I rushed toward the corner ere Holmes or Uncle John could stop me: But someone else stepped between me and the frame, or shall I say something? I felt my head incline backwards as I stared up at the apparition, my breath pausing. Never in my life had I seen such a creature, not even in my worst nightmares.

He was a giant, an ogre. His hands, which dangled at the hight of my shoulders, were easily the size of Mrs. Hudsons largest frying pan. My awed gaze wandered further up his incredibly bulky chest, his thick neck, toward the face that was mercifully half-hidden behind his thick and tangled blond hair. Only the eyes glinted from behind strands that were so matted they gave the spectator an idea of fur. I recoiled, and, I will not deny it, gave a little whimper.

„You're wise to be afraid! Udyr ist not a gentleman to be trifled with."

The high, crystal-clear voice came from somewhere behind there frame, and my eyes reverted to it hectically.

„However, Miss Morris, you are not wise enough to have learned from the mistakes of your unfortunate Aunt, seeing how you affiliated yourself to this man - my brother. And how are you today, Sherlock?"

With slow, resounding steps, Mycroft Holmes stepped out from behind the frame. Much as I had braced myself for this moment, I could not but cower away from his appearance. Somehow, this polished man with his velvety accent and his patent leather shoes chilled my entrails more thoroughly than the uncivilized butcher he apparently had hired as a bodyguard of sorts.

I felt myself shrink again, shrink to the floor. There was nothing I could do to prevent it. The look from glacieresque eyes reduced me to immaturity, send me back into the days when I wore short frocks and pigtails. It would be so, always.

But his gaze did not linger on me. His attention had shifted swiftly to my companions, whose faces I could not see, standing in front of them. In a way, I was grateful for it, since it was bad enough to hear their dumb helplessness.

„And Dr. Watson, of course. A pleasant, though I am bound to say, not entirely unexpected call."

He stood before us, hands folded on his back, slightly swinging on the balls of his feet. „I expect you are missing one thing or another from your personal wardrobe. Very sorry to have availed myself of your momentary oblivion, but I must say I found it very convenient to abbreviate matters in this way."

He reached into the deep pocket of his jacket, extracting the sparkling, shining Orb.

Sherlock spoke for the first time since entering the room. „We have not come to retrieve it."

„Why, I _am_ glad to hear you say so, because I intend to keep it!" With a supercilious smile, Mycroft Holmes put the gem back into his jacket. „And I must add, Sherlock, that I am very, very disappointed in you. To have drunk from the water carafe in a room so obviously overheated! A schoolboy would have exerted more caution."

„We have come to take Madame Zhao home", Sherlock replied quietly, ignoring the taunt. „She appears to be in a delicate state of health, and requires medical treatment. You can't have the least interest in having her perish here. You will have her freed of those shackles, and allow her to leave your house. In return, she will promise not to communicate with the police."

I closed my eyes as Mycroft started to laugh. The heinous sound seemed to reverberate through my body, and being able to spare myself the sight of his merriment counted as little against the sickening frisson the high peal of his laughter gave me.

„She will promise that, indeed? How refreshingly naive! Haven't you guessed that the local police received instructions from the capital that positioned me off limits, brother mine? Why, this isn't your merry old England with a dutiful Bobby on the next corner! You have entered a realm where it is for me to give orders, and for you to abide by them. The police!"

He chuckled once more, as if at a particularly successful joke. Then, he became serious. „However, you are making one strong point, Sherlock. The woman has served her function. I have no further use for her; there is not even much more entertainment to be had out of her."

I closed my hands to fists, glaring at the monster that was speaking to us in his repellent voice. And he was Sherlock's closest relative! It seemed incredible, and yet it was so. Every look and every movement attested to the kinship. It was odious.

Mycroft shrugged his shoulder. „Why should I insist on disposing of my own waste, when others are so eager to do it for me? Go ahead, you may have her."

Simultaneously, we took a step toward the frame, but a raised palm, extended against us, made us halt. „Not so fast. There is one condition."

„Of course", Sherlock returned, without surprise. „I will stay. You may exchange her for me, and profit from the bargain."

„No, no, it is not enough." Mycroft put his palms together, eying us thoroughly. I felt cold. All of a sudden, even the gigantic guardian, looming behind his master by the frame, seemed to feel cold. Something awful was going to happen.

And so it did. Mycroft raised his index, and, lowering it deliberately, pointed it at me. „She will remain, too."

I could hear both men inhale quickly behind my back.

„No." It was Uncle John who said that. „No, Holmes, I can't allow that. This its insane!"

My mind reeled. Dimly, I wondered at whom his protest was directed - at Sherlock, or at Mycroft? It didn't matter. I could not turn my back on the horrible castle anyway, not in the knowledge of having left Sherlock behind. I was prepared to stay if I could safe Madame Zhao, though I was aware that the only reason for Mycroft to exact my staying would be to torture and humiliate me, or Sherlock, or both of us.

I folded my arms in front of my chest, and nodded grimly. „Agreed. If ya'll let Dr. Watson taike Madame Zhao to th' village, I'll stay."

„Fanny, no!" Uncle John grasped my shoulder, and I half turned to look into his face. It was ashen, eyes pleading for me to waken to reason.

„How extraordinarily amusing. I don't trust I had been addressing either of you. Sherlock, will you at least try to control your minions? There, that is better. Come, Dr. Watson. Come here, but don't talk, I beg of you, I abhor triviality. The same goes for you, Miss Morris. That unfortunate accent used to mangle my nerves already from the lips of your predecessor."

With a malign smile, Mycroft motioned Uncle John to step closer. His ogre busied himself at the frame, and as he stepped aside, I could see the cuffs dangling loosely, with no hands shackled by them. Uncle John, meanwhile, advanced hesitantly toward the frame. I took a step back so as to stand next to Sherlock. If Mycroft had been able to divine what had taken place between us, there was no good now in trying to conceal our connection, however elusive.

Uncle John had now taken one last step, which enabled him to peer behind the strange contraption. A pitiable sound emerged from his throat, an arid yelp. He bent down so as to lift something up, and as he came back and made for the door behind us, Holmes caught me by the shoulders, turned me around and pressed my face to his chest, so that I should not see what he carried. I heard the door open in the distressing silence, and heard it close, with Uncle John's steps fading out in the passage.

The enduring silence was broken only by the sound of Mycroft's steps on the stone-flagged floor. I breathed intensely, trying to prevent the flow of tears. Against his chest, I could hear Sherlock's heart beat swiftly, like an engine that was made to work with maximum efficiency. I briefly wondered what it would be like if his brain were producing sounds as well. It would probably be bedlam.

„Well, well, Miss Morris. _Very_ unwise to get involved with my brother, isn't it? Oh, take comfort. I should doubt whether you'll live long enough to regret it."

A temporary inadvertency on Sherlock's part left me free to move, and I whirled around to look at Mycroft, alarmed by his words. What in blazes could he mean? Had he just advertised his attention to kill me - us?

He must have realized my defensive bearing, for he gave a brief laugh. „Oh, no. No, I don't usually get my hands dirty in this way. My dear, what I meant was this striking feature all the women in Sherlock's life have in common. You don't know what that is, do you?"

He sniggered, delighted at my wide-eyed cluelessness. Behind me, I felt Sherlock tense, and I imagined I could hear his heart beat even then, fast and fierce. When we forbore to speak, Mycroft raised his hands in frustration, as though we were a pair of exceptionally unteachable children.

„My dear! They invariably die! Our mother…"

„Silence!"

Sherlock's voice cracked through the room like a whip, but Mycroft blithely ignored him.

„She was so young, you know, Miss Morris, so young to die. So unhappy. Who can blame her for inducing her own death? I was a brilliant son, promising in every way, but she had lost me to my father, and so she clung to what was left to her - the younger one. Unfortunately, he proved to be a disappointment to her.…with his foibles…his softness…and his _violin_." Mycroft rolled his eyes significantly. „He had to be removed by our grandmother after our mother had died. And he _was_ removed, even to another country, at the family's request."

„I don't wanna 'ear that." With resolution, I crossed my arms. „It hain't no bearing on the present, and certainly none on the future."

„Oh, but you are mistaken, Miss Morris! Because as you can see, my brother's envy has effected a reversal of fortunes - he is the pet of the entire nation, a public favourite, her Majesty's lap-dog! And I am the prodigal son, cast out and banned to spend the rest of my life in this exile!"

For the first time, Mycroft seemed to show some emotion, other than sinister merriment. His lips pressed together tightly, and a spasm went through his cheek: mannerisms familiar to me, but uncanny in a person who had heretofore seemed to utterly lack human sentiment. However, it was but a fleeting moment, and it passed as abruptly as it had come.

When Sherlock spoke next, his voice had calmed. He seemed more or less unaffected by the dreadful accusation his brother had laid at his door: that he was in some way responsible for the death of their parent.

„You have brought this exile upon yourself, Mycroft. It has been ordained by her Majesty as a just penalty for your crimes, your treachery. There are those who think you may consider yourself very leniently dealt with."

„Spare your breath, brother mine", Mycroft jeered. „I have no use for your petty-minded smugness. Why won't you sweep your own hallway first? Your young friend and I were talking about grandmother, the grandmother you requisitioned in retaliation for my being father's favourite. And then what happened to her?"

„Well, I suppose she died", I spat. My fear had wholly dissolved, and there was nothing left but wreath and hatred. This psychopath had reduced my best friend to something an elderly man could just pick up and carry away, simply to take his mind off his own twisted issues. He would not do the same thing to us! „Come now, it is not so surprising. People do die. And partic'larly grandparents `ave a marked tendency to't."

He eyed me with surprise at my harsh words, and I could see it dawned upon him we were no longer under his spell, and he had lost the power to frighten us. „You seem quite determined to believe so! I suppose it is beside the point then, that her house was broken into by a band of ruffians who from mere clumsiness killed her, while her grandson was rather cosy at Cambridge!"

„And where was `er other grandson?" I exclaimed. „Was `e there to save the day? Or `as he ever been there for anyone?"

Mycroft stood quite still. Sherlock gently put his hand on my shoulder. He was asking me, non-verbally, to practice reticence. In contrast to me, he had not forgotten the presence of the ogre, and our complete lack of means for self-preservation. I looked at him, and saw his eyes dashing around the room restlessly, and again thought I could hear his brain at work, thinking, thinking.

Our foe, meanwhile, had recovered his composure. „Very well." He turned on his heel, and walked up to the far end of the room, stepping up to the massive bureau. „But what about _her_?"

He raised one arm up to the two large paintings that hung on the wall above, and at the same moment, I could hear the sound of an electric light-switch being turned from where the ogre lingered in the shadow. Suddenly, the dimness of dawn was replaced by full brilliant daylight. The change was so overwhelming that our eyes needed a second to adapt to it.

Next thing, both of us gave a start. Sherlock's hand, still on my shoulder, shoved me aside as he stepped past me, and toward his brother.

„Where the deuce did you get those?"

 **Hullo!**

 **Now it is official: Mycroft ought to be in the loony bin! His competitiveness toward his sibling and his thirst for vengeance are clearly anormal. I hesitate to think what went wrong with him, but here we are.**

 **Having done their utmost to save Madame Zhao, how are Sherlock and Fanny to get out of his fortress? That's the question…**

 **Love, Mrs.F**


	33. Chapter 33

**Free Fall**

 **„** **Hurled headlong flaming from h'ethereal sky/ with hideous ruin and combustion down/ to bottomless perdition."**

 **Paradise Lost**

With the pain of sudden brightness having intruded upon my sense of vision still acute, another sort of pain jolted through my soul. It made my heart throb violently with a sense of loss, and something else. I stood dumb and stupid, my eyes fixed on the wall above Mycroft's bureau.

I had never seen the two pictures before in my life, but there was no question as to whom they portrayed. The vibrancy of color was too familiar, composed by someone who knew well both his craft and his subject. That both pictures were painted by the same hand was apparent from the style of execution, although completely different techniques had been applied.

On the right, there was a more or less realist view of a woman in her early twenties, reclining supine against some kind of headrest, knees pulled over to one side. Her watery grey eyes, which were directed at the spectator, had a cool, expectant expression. Her right arm lay across her lap, partitioning her body, which was wrapped in a gauzy, transparent sea-green material, in its midst. Her left arm fell relaxed by her side, following the line of her well shaped body. The gauzy stuff covered only the left half of her chest, leaving one full, white breast bare. The richly flowing auburn hair provided an attractive contrast to the pallor of her skin.

Equally revealing, the picture on the left was, however, less personal, less direct. This impression stemmed from the use of a modern, blurry style I dimly remembered having seen before at an exhibition in Paris, but also from the fact that the woman had her back turned on the spectator, her face featuring only as a vague speck in the mirror she was using. She was wearing nothing besides her garter belt, stockings and briefs, plus a brassiere she was about to unhook. The color of her hair, represented by a reddish cloud, was repeated by a flower in a vase by the mirror.

It didn't take Sherlock's speechless fury to let me know I was looking at likenesses of my Aunt Cathy. Like her mother before her, she had worked as an artist's model, and I had seen other, though less successful, attempts at a reproduction of her beauty. People had occasionally compared the two of us. But in the humbling presence of these pictures, I knew I looked nothing like her, _was_ nothing like her. A superficial family resemblance was the only reason Holmes had sought comfort with me - an act of desperation, nothing more, nothing less. I couldn't pretend otherwise.

We must have provided a pretty sight, for Mycroft chuckled his delight. „Where did I get those? Well, I came by them, my boy. London is a flourishing market for a lover of the arts, after all. One can always find a good bargain."

„A bargain!" Sherlock bared his teeth. He radiated such insane rage that I took one step away from him, lest he run amok. „Those pictures were in the possession of Lord George Lewis and the artist, Lorenzo Burini, respectively!"

„They were." Mycroft inclined his head in the affirmative.

„So it was you who killed him! I thought as much." I saw his hands flex and close alternately. His chest heaved with labored breathing.

„And if it were so? My dear boy, there have been times, I was told, that you would fain have killed him yourself. Consider the deed as a favour." Mycroft rested against his bureau, both palms on its surface, and turned up his face as though studying the pictures. „It is deplorable though, he was an admirable artist. Well, well. He could have risen high, had he considered painting subjects more worthy of his attention."

Sherlock made an involuntary movement, as if to dash at his brother, but I caught him by the elbow. „Don't!" I hissed. It was all too clear what was going on. Certainly, Mycroft was carrying a gun on his person and was only hoping to provoke his brother into violence. Even if he were unarmed, someplace over yonder, there lurked the almost inhuman creature he had hired for his protection.

„There, there!" Mycroft crossed his ankles, obviously at his ease and enjoying it all very much. „You know I never approved of your decision to endow a person of that ilk with our good name. It is fortunate there is no surviving offspring from this imprudent connection…we have, I trust, seen enough to judge on the quality of such a product."

I was, again, forcibly holding on to Sherlock's elbow. His free hand had laid over my hand, trying to take it off. At Mycroft's words, however, his fingers dug into my hand rather than getting rid of it. It was quite painful, and I gasped, but did not attempt to remove it.

„But now, I see how matters stand", Mycroft continued with a malicious glance at us. „You intend to repeat the experiment - and with the same poor raw material as before! Worse, I might say! Sherlock, have you observed the parentage of this girl? An Irish country rube for a mother, and a straying alcoholic for a father! Should our family, then, be degraded in this manner?"

I knew he was trying, for a change, to provoke me, but my blood was still boiling, partly because I knew he was speaking the truth. Yes, he had done his research well. He knew exactly what would hurt most, and that was, the plain and undeniable truth. How I had always loathed and despised my mother, taking to flight at every turn, seeking refuge with Aunt Cathy! And my father, worse than a disgrace, had probably squandered my younger sister's innocence for more alcohol, resulting in her muteness ever since.

„Don'tcha worry", I said between my teeth. „My family is less keen to secure kinship wiv yours than ya might fink."

„Well I'm glad to hear it! I would not want to be the last of my family to be an idiot. And your aunt's progeny was, I must admit, not a pretty sight."

„How is it even possible that ya saw `im?" I spat. „ `e was born long after ya was revealed as a traitor."

„Oh, you may be unaware I possess a little holiday residence on the Sussex Downs", Mycroft returned, carefully scrutinizing his nails. „As a lone walker equipped with field glasses, it was fairly easy to watch you at play, or Sherlock smoke in the backyard, or your aunt push her perambulator across the fields. I used to follow her around now and again." He glanced up to make a face. „She would stop to take it out, at times. _Very_ ugly to look at."

Sherlock, meanwhile, had managed to get free of my hand. Straightening himself, he rearranged his sleeve, flicking back the shirt cuff. „Mycroft, this sort of amusement has been going on for long enough. I suggest you decide on whether you will let us go or finish us off, and then act on your decision. Inconsistency is quite intolerable to me, and I would prefer to see this business through to the end. So would Miss Morris, or I'm much mistaken."

„Quite so." Mycroft nodded his approval. „Sherlock, I appreciate your death wish…oh, you will die in the end, of course. It shows a remarkable consistency on your part. However, as I implied earlier, I am reluctant to soil my hands with blood. I would much prefer if somebody else could take on this unedifying task - Miss Morris, would you oblige?"

I gazed back at him, and my heart turned to water. So this was what all his talk had been about, all these accusations against Sherlock. He had hoped to win me over, to poison me against his brother until I was quite willing to take his instructions, and become his executioner. Seeing that he could not incense me in this way had angered him, therefore the insults against me and my people. And now, he would not hesitate to force me, if I didn't act voluntarily.

„Why?" I screeched weakly.

„Why not?" Mycroft smirked. „Does it not seem extremely appropriate? My brother ruined and terminated so many women's lives…why not play the game the other way round, for once?"

I turned my head, looked at the bloodless face of the man I had, indeed, held to be culpable for my aunts death for such a long time it had been hard to get rid of the notion. I had witnessed many incidents of violent strife between him and my Aunt, a lot of hardness, unfairness, even cruelty on his part. Especially his refusal to accept the blow of fate and resign to bringing up a retarded child would have been enough for many women to put an end to their life. Could there be some truth in Mycroft's accusations?

In spite of his pallor, his gaze was steady. He did not speak, and neither was it necessary. We looked at each other mutely, and as before, my mind was alive with memories of our life and times, ever since, as a little girl, I had cast my first awed look on him at the flat in Baker Street. So was I to be the one whose hand, though involuntarily, should put him to death? It seemed unreal, and yet, maybe Mycroft had made an appropriate decision, albeit on a plane different from his petty wishes and ambitions.

It seemed like a long time before anything happened. Perhaps he wanted to get the most out of the spectacle, or perhaps it was just me, experiencing time as a process of stringy quality, viscous like treacle. I saw the ogre step from the shadows, drawing closer with infinite slowness. He retrieved two fire weapons from the recesses of his shapeless clothing, on of which I dimly recognized as Uncle John's revolver. The other one undoubtedly was Sherlock's, taken from his pocket whilst we slept.

Mycroft crossed his arms before his chest, reclining against his bureau with a sneer. He seemed to enjoy it all very much: My dumb confusion, the trembling of my limbs. Sherlock's deathly pallor. Yes, he had set it all in scene very neatly. He would let me do the dirty work, and his ogre would dispose of me. Due to a lack of practise, I was an execrable shot, even at this short distance. Depending on where I hit, Sherlock might live long enough to witness my own liquidation. All in all, a fine piece of revenge.

I dug my teeth into my lower lip. How much hatred had I seen in my short life! The constant fighting between my parents, between my mother and Aunt Cathy. The utter detestation of Aunt Mary against Sherlock, who, according to her, had gambled away Aunt Cathy's life, a conviction she had passed on to me. And my own hate, hate against most anyone, against my parents, against the girls at the shop, against Sherlock, against even Kitty herself, always better, always superior.

The ogre had now stepped up to me, standing close by my side. I closed my eyes, just to hear Mycrofts jeer: „Any thoughts, or last wishes? Sherlock, you may want to kiss your friend good-bye. She is, after all, doing you a great service, ending your wretched life."

„Go to Hell, Mycroft Holmes!" I heard Sherlock curse him. He had recovered from the first shock, and was now obviously loosing his temper. I knew it was not death itself he dreaded, rather that Mycroft would delay it to toy with us.

„Manners!" Mycroft tutted. He advanced a little from where he had made himself comfortable as a spectator of the show. „But as you are so very impatient, we will humor your wish for precipitance. Udyr!"

I felt the sudden pressure of cold steel against my temple, reopening my eyes. Udyr was holding one of the guns to my head, the other one he pressed into my hand. It had a clumsy, unfamiliar feel to it, and I suddenly wished I had acquired some skill with a fire weapon, so as to be able to complete my terrible task in one go.

Mycroft was now very close. He sneaked up to where Sherlock waited for me to act, standing right behind him. His hands were laid on his brother's shoulders as if in a caress. „It is modest of you not to ask for a last favor!" He said into his ear, so low I could only just understand it. „Your demands were few even as a child…I can hardly remember you asking for anything, save for books and that foolish violin. Therefore I will present you with a gift before you pass away. You want to know what it is?"

And he inclined his head even closer to his brother's. „It is a clear conscience, Sherlock. Something you will appreciate…you, the virtuous, the saintly do-gooder." He smiled derisively. My finger curved around the trigger in a desperate desire to pull it, but there was the Argus-eyed guard by my side, and the iron-cold pressure against my temple. Meanwhile, Mycroft continued.

„I have seen many things in my time on the Sussex Downs…I told you about the field glass, about the sport I made of stalking you all like ignorant animals. I saw many things…"

Sherlock's pupils had turned to the right, as if that could help him to see the man who talked to him with a silken tongue. His hands, hanging limp by his sides, twitched with suppressed wrath.

„I saw, among other things, the death of your wife…the superfluous little wench." Mycroft laughed quietly. „You believe she precipitated herself down the cliffs out of unrequited love for you? She did not." More laughing. „ _I_ shoved her."

I am not sure what exactly happened. There was a terrible roar, like the approach of thunder or an earthquake, and the two men were down on the floor. I started, my whole body tensed with shock, my hands cramped together…and there fell a shot. A shot, I did not know how, I did not know whither, but I heard the awful howl of the ogre, stumbling back and letting his gun drop to the floor. It slithered across the stones as the impossibly tall and broad man, in spasms of pain, pressed his hands to his guts, blood spouting out between his fingers.

Some seconds had passed before I realized that I had released the shot.

In the meantime, Sherlock had forced Mycroft to the floor, both hands mercilessly locked around his throat. The man struggled, his hands working his chest as if that would avail him to get free. I rushed after the gun Udyr had dropped, and picked it up with a nervous glance toward the door. The shot had undoubtedly alerted the guards, for there was a great clatter of feet out on the stairs.

I whirled around to the fighting men, and within an instant discerned Mycroft's intent: His spidery hands had managed to extract a pistol from his shirt front, and he was struggling to direct it at his brother, who in a mindless rage tried to strangle him. I did not think. I fired.

Sherlock jumped to his feet, and tripped backwards with alarm and amazement. His eyes shot a gaze at me: Bewildered, but at the same time alert to the danger that approached us.

He came at me, and grabbed my wrist so that with a pained yelp, I let go off the weapon. He dragged me across the room, and viciously kicked in one of the windows. It was shattered to a billion tiny shards, strewn across the floor.

It was this picture of gleaming little pieces of glass I had in my mind during the following second, not really awake to what was happening. Only the rush of air and the helpless pedaling of my feet informed me that we were in a state of free fall.

 **Hiya!**

 **That was it for Mycroft and his proxies! If Sherlock and Fanny are not going to break their necks, we can look forward to a happy conclusion to the adventure! I hope to install the last chapter before Christmas.**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	34. Chapter 34

**Gender Swap**

 **„** **Full of doubt I stand/ whether I should repent me now of sin/ by me done and occasioned, or rejoice/ much more, that much more good thereof shall spring."**

 **Paradise Lost**

I am still unsure what really happened. I suppose Holmes must have dragged me with him, for with my terror of heights, it does not seem plausible that I would have plunged myself into the depth of my own volition. Be that as it may, when I came to, it was too late for every precaution - hand in hand, we rushed toward the earth, following the command of gravity.

My eyes closed, expecting to hit the ground any moment. And so I did, albeit in a different way from what I had imagined. A soft, malleable matter parted beneath the soles of my feet to absorb me wholly. Water! Unlike Holmes, I had forgotten about the moat encompassing the building. Splashing and puffing, I struggled to the surface, almost insensible with the cold. However, before I was done enjoying a lungful of air, I was forced back beneath the surface, and instantly, I heard the sharp whirr of bullets even through the five inches of water above my head.

My hand was still in his firm grasp, and he still dragged me along. I tried to move my legs, be of some assistance, but due to my skirts, it was barely feasible. Besides, I was running out of oxygen again. I tried to remove my hand, tried to shake him off, but in vain: he pulled me by the arm, onwards beneath the surface. I felt close to drifting out of my conscience when finally, the waters parted again above me head, and a mighty impulse heaved me up into the cold air.

The bank of the moat was muddy, and I could not get a proper foothold, flailing miserably. Luckily, Holmes had me, he helped me up the bank, half dragging, half carrying me. We stumbled across the misty lands, with the sound of the shooting still in our ear. They had no doubt tried to get at us from the broken window, but what with the dim morning light had been granted no success.

Holmes hurried me along, his arms still locked around my upper body. I tripped, and slithered on the ground in my soaked shoes, but he had me, unfailingly. It was only when we reached a strip of woodland that we heard the dogs. Their bark was far away, but drew nearer quickly. I started in a panic, unable to articulate my fear.

„Don't give up, Frances! You've seen the map, we have almost made it!"

My feet seemed to work the ground like drumsticks, fueled by the howls behind us, but again, I tripped over tree roots and would almost have fallen.

„Quick, quick!"

The strip of wood ended, and only a narrow grassy field separated us from a high fence made from laths. Throwing my head around, I could see the beasts emerging from beneath the trees - it may have been my fancy, but I recall them as huge black shadows, their glowing eyes the only recognizable features.

I ran.

Holmes had let go off my hand, and, being faster than me, had reached the fence first. He was halfway up when I got there, but as yet unable to give me a hand. I had to try it myself.

With both hands clambering at the laths, I tried to get my foot into the small interspace, so as to hoist my bulk, but it seemed almost too narrow. When I had finally made it, one of the dogs made a leap at me. I was too far up for him, but my skirt, soaked with water and trailing heavily beneath me, was caught between his teeth.

I shrieked, and nearly let go off the fence, when the mighty pull surprised me. At this moment, a hand appeared within my field of vision, and I grasped it, squeezing my eyes shut. There was a strong draw at both ends of me - it took only moments, but those felt like an eternity. It was the tearing sound of my skirt's seam coming off that gave me a fresh impulse. Holding on to the hand for dear life, I pushed myself up with all my strength and somehow managed to climb over the spiky tips of the laths unscathed.

On the other side, I slid to the ground listlessly. My descent was somewhat softened by a pair of arms that waited to aid me. The dogs vociferated behind the fence, making it wag precariously. We were not yet in safety.

„Come along!"

We had more or less dropped into the backyard of one of the villagers, and hurried to get off the property. The sun was rising in the east, and people began to stir - in the road, there was the cart of a milkman staidly rattling along.

„Make haste!" Holmes took me by the arm, and we dashed onto the lane, and after the trundling vehicle. The faster we got into town and among people, the faster we would be safe from open persecution.

„Stop! Stop!"

„ _Mon Dieu_!"

The sleepy milkman opened his eyes wide at the sight of us: drenched with the foul waters of the moat as we were, it must have been a sight indeed! But his expression softened considerably when he beheld money in our hands, and after a moment of far-fetched explanations on our part, he agreed to give us a lift into town.

oooOOOooo

At our hotel we learned that Watson had ordered an ambulance bound for Dieppe, the closest place with a well-equipped hospital. His first instinct, as a doctor, had been to afford his patient the best available medical care, not to get help for his friends in danger. I didn't resent his decision, and as far as I can tell, neither did Holmes.

We allowed ourselves time to wash, change our dress and pack a few necessities. In picking a cab to bring us to the train station, Holmes exercised some extra care, letting two that offered themselves pass us by. Everything went smooth enough, until, looking out of the window, Holmes uttered a swear between his teeth.

„ _Sacré_!"

The entire train station had been engirt with a cordon of police. Mycroft's men must have alerted them. With a sudden stricture of my throat, I became aware that I was liable for what the officials might interpret as manslaughter in two cases, though I had acted in self-defence. My shock at the realization must have been written on my face, for Holmes tutted disapprovingly.

„There now, Frances, you mustn't loose heart. They have barred their train stations and ports against us - fine, we don't need them. There is a safe enough haven for us in this country: The British embassy in Paris!"

„But `ow can we possibly get there?" I dug my hand into my hair in despair. „We need some means o` transportaition!"

„Leave it to me."

He narrowed his eyes at what could be seen of the police block from the cab window. In less than a minute, our driver would drop us off as arranged beforehand, and we would be exposed to their eyes.

„They expect a middle-aged man and a young woman…let's see what can be done on the quick. Frances, you wouldn't object to a change in gender, would you? No worries, it is but a temporary alteration."

„Uhm…I beg yer Pardon?" I looked at him, baffled.

oooOOOooo

Exactly one minute afterwards, an elderly woman and a young fellow emerged from a cab in the busy throng in front of the train station and continued on foot hurriedly. It was the clumsiest ruse, improvised just to get us safely through the most imminent danger: Holmes, wrapped in a horse rug and with my hat on his head, resting on his cane as if on a much-needed walking stick, talked to me incessantly in a brittle old voice that resembled a piece of chalk on a blackboard.

As for myself, I had donned his overcoat that on my person was long enough to conceal every inch of skirt. His hat, equally oversized, was nonetheless necessary to hide away my hair, and a cheap pair of glasses, conveniently forgotten in the cab by some passenger, completed the scare crow outfit. We kept our faces down, and Holmes' incessant prattle served as an effective deterrent against anyone who might have thought of addressing us.

Still, it seemed a miracle that we got down the street without attracting police attention. Around the corner from the station, there was a small square that served as a parking lot for vehicles meant to transport travelers between the station and the hotels. Here, Holmes stopped.

„Let us see…no, that will hardly do." Absent minded, he handed me back my hat, running to and fro between the carts, coaches and hansom cabs.

„Mr. `olmes!" I cast a look around nervously. „Ye're not finking of…?"

He stopped in his steps, turning his head back at me and smiling. „Cold feet, Frances? I shouldn't have thought that adding such a trifling crime as stealing a set of wheels to everything else would disturb you."

I hissed angrily. This was not a matter to joke about! We were indeed being persecuted like criminals and faced discovery any moment now. How could he be so nonchalant about the fact that his brother was dead by our - by my hand?

Anyway, it would not do to reproach him now. We needed to get away, and if this was the only possibility, then so be it. He had, meanwhile, had his pick: The only vehicle in the lot that did not require horses, a Peugeot tricycle fueled with gasoline!

I clapped my hands to my cheeks when he climbed the machine and tried to start it. I could not believe we were going to steal an automobile! Even if he would manage to get it running, it was the worst thinkable option for getting us to Paris. It did not have a cover, which in the wintry weather was bad enough, but it was also dependent on fuel and we could not know how much had been filled into the tank.

Also, it was conspicuous as hell.

The first roaring sound of the wakening engine startled me horribly, and the ensuing rattling and crackling did nothing to reassure me. Who could know whether such an infernal machine might not suddenly explode, and reduce us to ashes?

Holmes clearly had no such qualms. He waved his hand at me impatiently. „What now? Don't you want to get on?"

With great hesitation and the worst misgivings, I approached the hissing, chattering contraption. „D`ye even know `ow ter handle this monster?"

„Not really", he replied serenely. „But I have a good theoretical understanding of how the machine works, and it is never too late to learn new things. Now, if you please?"

With resignation, I took his proffered hand and let him help me onto the huffing vehicle. There was a little hitch when we started, and I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply to regain my calm. With no less than three minor collisions with the parked cabs, Holmes finally succeeded in steering us out of the lot and into the open street. I kept my hands firmly clapped together, and prayed like I had not prayed in years.

oooOOOooo

Strange enough, we left the town behind us without being stopped, or causing a terrible accident. However, I was glad for the horse rug we had purloined from our cabby, for it was as cold on the country roads as expected. We moved closer together, and watched the surprised gazes of the odd peasant, standing by the road side to look on until we had disappeared on the horizon.

„Ye knows the value of such an apparatus, I s`ppose, Mr. `olmes?" I enquired with my eyebrows raised. „If ye should wreck it, it would probably mean bankruptcy and a loifetime o` debt to both o` us!"

„Why no, it is not as bad as that. Besides, I could always charge it on the bill of my employer, the French Government", he replied lightly.

„I am not sure ya could claim ter be actin' on their behalf still", I gave to consider. „This has been a private undertaking essentially, and I doubt they will approve of it when they get ter know the facts."

„Private? In what way? I have performed the given task, have I not? They wished me to locate Madame Zhao, and recover the Orb. The first is at present in a hospital in Dieppe, under the good care of Dr. Watson. The latter…"

And he reached into his breast pocket, retrieving the sparkling gem. I frowned.

„But `ow…? Mycroft took it from you!" Then it dawned upon me: He must have taken it back from his brother when he was on the floor beneath him, maybe even after I had shot him. I will admit this presence of mind, not to say sangfroid, somewhat appalled me.

He must have realized my discomfort, for he gave me one of those quick glances from the side that said so much more than words. „We must not beat about the bush, Fanny. Brother or no, I am glad about his death, I will not pretend otherwise."

I shook my head. „It seems inhuman."

„If this is how you feel about it, you should not have agreed to be a part of this enterprise in the first place. His destruction was our object, or had you forgotten? Killing someone may not be the most elegant way to destroy him, but at least it is fairly final. So don't reproach me with a lack of feeling, I beg you. Would you rather I had burst into tears at his annihilation?"

„No…" I admitted slowly. „O` course not. I am glad - relieved - ye do not hate me for what I was forced ter do."

„Hate you! You amuse me." He shook his head, looking straight ahead of us onto the road. „I do not hate you; if anything, I resent what you did because it deprived me of the chance to do it myself."

„Then ye would of done it yerseln?"

„I was about to do so when you got in between."

I shrugged. „What does it matter who actually killed him. We were fairly close to becoming `is victims, rather than the other way around. That `e is dead is all that counts fer me now."

„It does matter to me", he calmly said. „Revenge would have been my due: He killed my wife."

„And he killed my aunt." I looked at him, almost angry. „Certainly, I had the same right to desire vengeance. You keep forgetting it, but I loved her, too!"

He faced my glare, just to turn back and continue looking out on the road. „You're right. I had forgotten."

And we rattled on in silence, both of us looking ahead always, never so much as turning our heads.

 **Dear readers,**

 **Ha Ha! I had fun imagining how Holmes and Fanny nick a car. Besides, at the time, it would not have been terribly fast, but able to keep a constant tempo compared to a carriage, the horses of which would tire after a while. So, not a bad choice at all!**

 **I'd like to give the season's greetings to you and hope will be having a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!**

 **Love, Mrs. F**


	35. Chapter 35

**Prison Release**

„Let it profit thee to have heard/by terrible example the reward/ Of disobedience; firm they might have stood,/ yet fell; remember, and fear to transgress."

Paradise Lost

We spent the night at a small wayside tavern, having first concealed our vehicle in a deserted barn. I had convinced Holmes that it was too easy to track us like this, besides, on the next day at the very latest we would have to refill fuel. So we entered fake French names into the guest book, and secured two rooms on the upper floor as well as a trap and a team of horses for the remainder of our journey.

During the simple dinner at the table d'hôte, Holmes was almost permanently absent, making one phone call after the other. I resolved not to be curious, and withdrew to my chamber for the night. However, there was no repose to be found in the cold, strange bed. I lay awake, wondering about the countless travelers that must have rested their tired heads here over the years.

A wintery gale was coming on out of doors, and the howls and the creaking sounds in the timber of the roof made me anxious. Were I given to superstitious notions, I might have imagined Mycroft, in the gigantic dimensions that a child would picture in a nightmare, trying to lift the roof and expose the house to the raging of the storm.

I also thought of Holmes, resting next doors. Did it really not concern him at all I had extinguished the life of his elder brother? I had been instilled with a sense of family ties that was irreconcilable to such stoic acceptance. In Limehouse, my place of origin, a deed such as mine would mark the beginning of a bitter, and sometimes violent, family feud.

But he had promised not to hate me, and I had to be content with that.

oooOOOooo

To my utter relief and not a little to my surprise too, we reached the capital on the next day without being spotted and arrested. Holmes steered right toward the eighth arrondissement, halted without the least sign of reverence in the Rue du Fauburg St-Honoré in front of a magnificent building, and helped me out of the trap, leaving it and the team of horses to its own devices.

We hurried up the flat stone steps to the British Embassy, and were admitted at the mention of our names. Knowing myself safe now from the grasp of the French officials, I relaxed considerably. This was a home away from home, a small patch of England on foreign territory. We were received by a Mr. Raleigh, a small rotund man who seemed to have very little in common with his 16th century namesake, and who ushered us into a parlour where we were made to wait.

One hour had gone by when the arrival of several gentlemen was announced at the sound of whose names I experienced the heebiejeebies. Never before had I met with such high-ranked statesmen, and never had I felt less up to the task! My state as a persecuted criminal came back to mind. How awful, having to answer to the questions of the President of the Republic and his cabinet ministers!

The picture of my late aunt resurfaced before my inner eye. Yes, she had been convicted for attacking the Baron Gruner, and had been in gaol for no less than a year. Aunt Cathy had been able, to some degree, to ignore the conventions, to spurn public opinions of her. But I, and I felt this for the hundredth time, was not like her. I had a larger craving for society's acceptance, I had worked too hard on becoming an established member thereof.

I was frightened.

I think Holmes was sensitive of my anxiety when the double-winged doors where opened wide, and an elderly gentleman, adorned with a large white moustache, stepped into the room: Félix Faure, 7th President of the French Republic. In his wake there followed a trousseau of men, all of whose faces seemed more or less familiar to a regular subscriber to the official papers.

„Mr. Sherlock Holmes!"

„Monsieur le Président. Gentlemen." Holmes insinuated a bow by the slightest incline of his upper body. „Allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Frances Morris, who has been my partner in this rather extraordinary business about the missing Orb."

„Partners in crime, some might say, Monsieur Holmes", Félix Faure returned in quite a cool note, taking a seat on one of the Louis Seize chairs and motioning the other gentlemen to be seated as well. „Not only have we been informed about the havoc you created at a number of locations in Paris - among them several places of worship! - but also out of the city. It would appear, for instance, that you abstracted a valuable automotive machine."

„To be here all the quicker, Monsieur le Président", Holmes returned, equally cool. „I had been made to understand I had carte blanche in my handling of the affair."

I could understand his annoyance, however, I hoped he would not fall out with the great man, but put him in a merciful mood. Still, what mercy could I expect for the killing of Mycroft if the man got worked up about a pilfered automobile?

„Carte blanche - yes, in financial matters. Also, we intended, of course, to give you free reign in the way you conduct this business. We had not, however, given you leave to make a major stir in several spots of this city who were reported as causing -„

„Who were massively exaggerated, I presume", Holmes interrupted. „And I can guess by whom. Monsieur le Président, Gentlemen, I can only recommend to you the instant removal of Monsieur Simon from his post as well as Superintendent André Dulage. Both of them, and several others, had been corrupted to act in the interests of my brother Mycroft Holmes - the man responsible for the disappearance of Madame Zhao and the King's Orb."

There was a loud murmur at the mention of the traitors, and some of the ministers protested violently.

„Simon, impossible!"

„Où sont les preuves?"

„Quelle impudence d'accuser un homme honnête comme ca!"

Félix Faure, for one, remained silent until the murmur had abated. Only one brow was drawn up until it almost touched the receding hairline.

„These are very grace accusations, Monsieur Holmes", he finally remarked. „I think we are right to demand proves for your outrageous claims. Can you provide any for the assumed guilt of your brother?"

„I am confident that I can do so. For not only did we find Ling Zhao in his house, half starved and much abused - now in the municipal hospital of Dieppe - but also this."

And again, he reached into his pocket and extracted the gem, producing the same awed response in the men that he had in Uncle John and me, every time. The president's reaction was also worth watching.

„The gem!" He all but rushed at Holmes, taking it from him and holding it up to the light. The sparkle and the translucent sheen of the colors seemed to convince him of its authenticity, for he lowered it again with a gasp and a look of bewilderment at the man before him. „And you say you found this in the possession of your brother?"

This enormous distortion of the truth took my breath away, but as I should see later, Holmes was able still to beat that. Besides, it would justify our doings and save us no end of time and explanations. So I did my best to look as though this were not news to me.

„And Monsieur Simon- you claim he was in on his game? How is that possible?"

„My brother is -„ Holmes began, stumbling over his own words, correcting himself: „my brother was a man of superb connections and a very far reaching influence. His network, I imagine, partly stems from the time when he worked for the British Government, or, as some might say, he _was_ the British Government. But we may suppose that after his exclusion from public service, which came upon him as retribution for high treason against Her Majesty, we must assume he had been able to forge new alliances and even get a foot into the door of this country's ruling circles."

He let his eyes wander among the Ministers to great effect, for they fell silent without exception, some of them returning his gaze uneasily. Félix Faure was the first to recover.

„This may be so, Monsieur Holmes, and it may not. The fact remains that Mycroft Holmes was a naturalized citizen of France, and thus under the protection of my government. Yesterday, he was found dead at his home, after your intrusion into and flight from his house had reportedly taken place. How do you account for that?"

Holmes straightened himself, and not for the first time, he struck me as a very imposing man, who towered above Faure several inches. „Pray register, gentlemen, that I take full responsibility for the death of Mycroft Holmes and his bodyguard. I killed both in order to preserve my nieces' life and my own which had been immediately threatened by them. If you esteem the pending danger as overrated by me, I recommend you question Dr. Watson upon the point, who has been with us most of the time. Also, an interview with Ling Zhao might be instructive, provided she survives the atrocities that were inflicted on her. I have nothing more to say. My commission, I fancy, ends here."

„Mr. Holmes…" Faure raised a pair of soothing hands in an attempt to smooth his ruffled feathers. Secretly, I breathed deeply. Warm gratitude streamed through my veins. Imagine Holmes, taking the responsibility for his brother's death upon his shoulders! I had done nothing to deserve such kindness, and yet I had not possessed the courage to contradict Holmes's statement.

„I have nothing more to say", the detective repeated, sounding perilously displeased. „If you have further questions as to the details of our flight, I suggest you ask Miss Morris to provide them. As concerns myself, you'll find me in the hallway."

An he went out, just turning the back on the head of state and the most eminent men of the republic.

oooOOOooo

He enjoyed a deep inhalation of tobacco, lightly leaning against the stone balustrade and watching the afternoon turn into evening when a familiar footfall in the marble hall alerted him.

„Good evening, Watson", he greeted his companion, not turning around. „I trust your patient is well?"

„She is on the mend, Holmes. I was told to find you here, at the Embassy. Where is Frances?"

He made a non-committal movement of the arm. „Oh, still in a cross-examination with Faure and his cabinet, I imagine. It is a little bit like the last day in a school year, nothing more serious than that. So, Madame Zhao is healing?"

„Indeed, but she'll be too weak for transportation for a while. The - your - he has greatly impaired her health, poor soul."

„Not so much as we did impair his, I'll wager." He turned around for a brief smile, scrutinizing the doctor head to toe. He looked tired, worn out, having come all the way from Dieppe by train today. „It would not do to mention it in there, but Fanny has proven very handy with a pistol. It was a close thing Watson; she saved my life."

„Fanny has - „ Watson gripped the balustrade, resting against it in an attempt at regaining balance. „Holmes, do you have any idea what this may have done to the poor girl? How can you speak of it so cavalierly? Could not you have removed him from the face of the earth yourself?"

„Like I said, it was a close business. Besides, I think you underrate your warden. She has strong nerves, and a strong will. Otherwise, of course, I would not have minded to take matters into my own hand."

The doctor shook his head, aghast. „My God. All this is too terrible even to think about. I wish I hadn't enquired."

„You pity him, then?" Holmes frowned. „You pity the man who would fain have killed us if he could have, who with his last words confessed to pushing my wife off the cliff?"

„He…?" Watson blanched.

„Oh yes." With a grim nod, Holmes flicked away his cigarette stud. „Even in the company of Culverton Smith, Augustus Milverton and Professor Moriarty, my own brother Mycroft has been a remarkably evil individual, and I think neither Fanny nor I regret having finished his career in this world."

He shook his head. „I cannot understand. How can such hatred come to be? How could he have wished to bereave and destroy you so utterly?"

„I have no wish to speculate on the nature of hatred. But I should think that an early impression with antipathy could grow to abstruse dimensions - alongside such envy, spite and jealousy, as can only arise between siblings that are made into rivals through their parents' ambition."

„Yes…" Watson looked out on the darkening roofs of the city. „But at least, one good thing has come from the whole affair."

„And that may be…?"

Watson took one step back, placing his palms on the taller man's shoulders. „You can be absolutely sure now that Kitty did not commit suicide. No, don't budge, I know what it means to you, old boy. All those years, you had chastised yourself with loneliness and remorse at your comportment - when it had nothing whatsoever to do with her death! Holmes, you are a free man today, more so than if you had been a prisoner all those years. You can start all over again if you wish…"

He stopped, and took one step back, suddenly aware of what he had suggested. A moment of anxious hesitation went by. Then Holmes sighed, and clapped his hand on his old friend's shoulder. „I think not, old man. Nevertheless - thank you. You're right, I had felt haunted these past weeks and months, with the illusion of what I desired most constantly before my eyes, and withdrawn whenever I sought fulfillment. But the spook has passed, and, as you have remarked so adequately, I have emerged as a free person…we all have."

The doctor nodded. He clapped his own hand on top of his friend's, just when a door opened and Frances came out into the corridor. She saw him, smiled gladly, and came to meet him. Both men watched her as she approached. Her hair shimmered in a dark mahogany red. When a gust of wind blew some strands across her face, very white lids closed over watery grey eyes for the fraction of a second. Feminine curves were delineated by the fit of her frock, and when she called to greet him, there was a distinctive East London ring to her words.

But her hair was pinned up in a quick hair-do, leaving her white neck and décolleté exposed. There were no scars to be seen, and even the most thorough of lovers would not be able to find a single one on her body.

 **Wheeew! Happy ending like I promised, eh? Yeah! it doesn't always have to be dark and horrible.**

 **One chapter to go, don't miss!**

 **Love, Mrs F.**


	36. Chapter 36

**Farewell**

 **„** **Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon/ the world was all before them, where to choose/ their place of rest."**

 **Paradise Lost**

The gulls were screeching as though it were judgement day when we disembarked from the carriage. They circled people's heads dangerously close, trying to locate and steal some delicious morsel. I raised one hand to shoo them, my boarding card strictly tucked away in the glove of the other hand.

One of the porters came to meet us, and together, we went over all the labels before handing over the various luggage items. The quai was busy, and our man was frequently interrupted by questions from disoriented travellers. Even though, I think that we loitered on purpose, in an attempt to procrastinate the point of no return.

But of course, the moment came when all the bags had been registered, and carried away by the funny old porter with the shuffling gait. We stood there, amid the bustle of departing folks, looking at each other, and I laughed insecurely, twisting my fingers with a sense of embarassment.

„Well…I guess this is good-bye", I finally managed to say. „Wish me luck with my new endeavour. Ya knows I'll dearly need it."

Holmes raised his eyebrow. „Not to worry, Frances. I'm convinced you will just simply sweep Adelaide of its feet. The ladies there will be forever grateful to you - so will the husbands, if just for the diversion you'll provide. The only conceivable difficulty that might arise is the material supply, but I presume you can find a solution, even in the backwaters of civilization."

„Indeed I `ave, Mr. `olmes! I shall be using me former employer's connections in Southern China. Materials can be shipped from there to Adelaide in no time at all. Madame Zhao has promised to contact some friends at home, too, so I don't expect too much trouble in tha` respect."

„Very well. Then I hope you won't forget giving my best to your Uncle Jonathan. You may remember the year I was his guest at Christmas, at your place in Ireland. He is a fine man, and was a favorite with your late Aunt."

„I know. I shall not forget it."

Suddenly, we were alerted to the honking sound of steam rushing skywards from the ship funnels, and I became aware it was now high time for our farewell. And farewell it was. I would travel half-way around the world, and chances were slim that we would ever meet again. With a smile, I extended my hand and grasped his to shake it cordially.

„Good-bye, Mr. `olmes. Have a safe return to England, and mind that you look in on old Uncle John from time to time. He needs some diversion as much as the good wives at Adelaide."

„You have my word on that, Frances." Holmes smiled back at me - briefly, briefly - and, rather unexpectedly, kissed me on the brow. The chaste gesture stirred me deeply, and, with mixed feelings, I went past the cordon to ascend the gangway. Up at its highest point, I turned around quickly, for people were pushing past me with some force, and I only just succeeded in raising my hand and waving good-bye to a man I only knew by the cut of his head, a fleck that swiftly disappeared in the faceless crowd.

oooOOOooo

Mrs. Hudson had cleared out the ashes from the fireplace and built a new fire just in time for the men to come into the study - Holmes' unnecessary clearing of the throat an indicator that her further presence was not required. She sighed her annoyance, and scuttled out of the room, leaving behind two forms that sank increasingly deeper into their seats in an after-dinner daze.

It was some time before speaking was to be thought of, and when it was, the doctor had assumed a wistful tone that soon waxed philosophical. „Well, well. The young ones fledge and go away. It is nature's course, I suppose. And the old ones are left behind to pine, to deteriorate, and finally, to decay. It has got to be this way, or how is change to be effected, if blood and spirit are not renewed from generation to generation? And without change, mankind would stagnate, and lose its power to adapt to new challenges, new situations created by the exhaustless caleidoscope of history."

His friend made a non-committal sound, and the doctor revolved in his seat to shoot a quizzical glance at him. „You don't believe in such ideas, then, Holmes? Maybe you think me a rambling old man who tries to make his loneliness more explicable to himself?"

„Not in the least, my dear doctor", Holmes returned in a soothing tone, but with the corners of his mouth twitching. „I do admire your rationalist view of the matter."

Watson slumped back into his seat with a small _Humph!_ that spoke of indignation. „You may well laugh at me, old boy", he grumbled, „but don't try to tell me that Frances' departure has left you all unmoved. You care for the girl, and you know as well as I that she won't be back unless her business venture fails utterly. But I should not think it will. What Frances means to do, she will do, and no mistake. She has been like this, always."

„Very well, doctor. She won't be back." Sherlock Holmes lit his pipe, drawing on it at regular intervals.

Watson, who sat with his back toward him, facing the fire, could not see the twinkling in his eyes, the amused tug at his mouth. Frances and the doctor seemed to be of like mind: That good-bye meant forever. But how could they be sure? One day, Frances' Uncle Jonathan would tire of the foreign seas, and return to Ireland. One day, Watson would be weak and limp, and require the loving care of a relative. One day, the ladies at Adelaide might run out of their dug-up gold, and all business might die on the Great Barrier Reef.

Holmes puffed on his pipe while thinking on these possibilities. He chuckled quietly. Even if none of these ever came to pass! He had never been to Australia before.

 **Hi Guys!**

 **That was it, The Adventure of the Red-Headed Intrigue, a case for the Great Detective to deal and finally come to terms with his past.**

 **Even if he and Frances do not come to be lovers, enough things have been achieved to justify a „Happy Ending" label: While Frances has grown to be a woman in her own right, stepping out of her Aunt's long shadow, Holmes has been liberated of the sense of guilt that for years had weighed on him. He is innocent of Kitty's end.**

 **Apart from that, he has been able to close a door on the ghosts of his early youth, an achievement that maybe would not have been possible without Mycroft's death. Jealousies and false educational principles were the reason why the parents split their son's allegiances between them as they did, not any imagined „softness" or „femininity" on Sherlock's part. Hopefully, this knowledge can help him to be less dour, less severe with others and with himself in the future.**

 **And last but not least, a case of international importance has been solved, and the life of an innocent woman saved! And Fanny can have a fresh start in a capacity that is her very own, totally emancipated from Kitty's paragon.**

 **I hope you liked the story a little bit! I very much enjoyed writing it. Take care and all the best wishes from**

 **Mrs. F**


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